The Circles: Book 3: To Escape a Dark Destiny
by Angmar's Elfhild
Summary: By Angmar and Elfhild. In a world where Sauron is the victor, Rohan is attacked and many civilians are taken as slaves. After escaping from their captors, five young adventurers try to find their way back home. Alas, the other Rohirric prisoners are not so lucky in escaping their chains. All of them face danger - from the living, the dead, and those in between.
1. Whispers from the Past

**Author's Note:** "The Circles" is an alternative universe series in which the Witch-king of Angmar survives the Battle of Pelennor Fields and Sauron regains the One Ring. When Rohan is attacked by the forces of Mordor, many Rohirric civilians are captured by raiding parties and sold to slave traders who plan to transport them to Mordor. In Book Two, "Journey of Sorrow," one of the captives, a headstrong woman named Goldwyn, stages a desperate escape attempt before the slave caravan crosses the Anduin.

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Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

_Osgiliath, June 17, year 3019 of the Third Age under the Sun_

As Goldwyn sucked in heavy breaths of air, she felt her legs trembling beneath her. She had to rest before her limbs gave way, and so she leaned against a broken wall and peered through the unremitting darkness. Though she had veered away from the Anduin, she still found herself surrounded by the silent ruins. Looking to the deep, velvety heavens, she took her direction from the stars. After resting a while, she ran onward upon shaking, stumbling limbs, her hand still clenching the jagged piece of marble like a protective talisman.

Though the silent hulks of long abandoned buildings still loomed about her, now they were fewer in number. She hoped that soon she would pass beyond the periphery of the ruined city and thus lead her pursuers far from her sons. Judging from the stars, she knew she must be going in a northerly direction.

Glancing over her shoulder, Goldwyn could not hear the sounds of pursuing feet or see the telltale flickering glow of torches. She ran on until her shuddering legs betrayed her, toppling her to the ground like a fallen tree. She lay on her stomach for a while, still clasping the marble fragment. The sweat streamed down her face, between her breasts, down her back and under her arms, washing away the benefits of the bath earlier that evening and adding to the stale, reeking stench that permeated her old garments.

Save for her own heavy breathing, all was silent about her. Still now were the frogs and the cries of the night birds, and not even the scuffling noises of small creatures could be heard in the quiet night. Could her pursuers have given up the chase? Could her scent have become so diffused with that of others that the trackers had lost hers in the confused mixture of trails? Was she safe for the time?

Then - by all that was holy! - she heard them - heavy guttural grunts coming from behind her! At the ebb of her strength, she lurched to her feet and staggered forward, her terror giving impetus to her flight. Gritting her teeth in fierce determination, she vowed she would give them a merry chase until they at last dragged her to the ground.

Before her, rising up out of the darkness, she saw the outline of trees, their graceful forms stark, barren and leafless. The trees seemed embarrassed by the unnatural nakedness imposed upon them in this land of perpetual spring unfulfilled and promises broken - the land cursed by a mad god bent upon conquest. Pressing between their boles, she saw a small stream impeding her path. Scurrying down the bank, Goldwyn waded into the cool, ankle-deep water. She felt the current nudging against her as the stream dashed on towards its appointment with the Anduin. Perhaps she could delay the orcs in their pursuit by losing her scent in the flow. She waded downstream where the water was deeper, until at last she came out on the opposite side of the stream.

Taking another look behind her, Goldwyn allowed herself a small hope that she might have evaded the orcs and given her sons sufficient time to achieve their escape. She was almost certain that three young boys would be of so little value to the slavers that they would ignore them and instead concentrate their efforts upon finding a much more valuable prize. As she topped the rim of the bank, she found that the woods continued and the ground rose steadily before her.

Her weary legs plodded onward until she reached the crest of the hill, and there, frowning down at her, loomed the great, sprawling hulk of a massive structure. A light, sighing wind blew about the pillars that supported the long, rectangular marble building and, as the breeze touched her forehead, its caresses cooled her heated brow.

As she placed each heavy foot after the other, she felt a stabbing pain reverberating through her aching calves and up her thighs. Her back was sore, and a fierce, sharp, stabbing pain slammed her behind the eyes. She could travel no further until she had rested and allowed her body to regain strength. But she could not rest here, not in the open where any could see her. Glancing to the building, she decided to take shelter within its ruined halls.

Whimpering softly, she trudged up the short flight of ancient stairs, the steps worn low in places by the impress of the many feet which had traversed them over the centuries. At the top of the flight lay a wide portico, the roof supported by great marble columns. As she walked beneath it, she beheld before her a heavier darkness against the darkness, a portal leading to the interior. The entrance gaped open and wide, and the door that had once been set upon the frame was no longer there, its carvings and artistry along with the hinges forgotten in the mists of time.

Reaching out with her hand, she touched the doorway and then entering, followed along the wall with her fingertips. Standing just inside the antechamber, she looked back behind her and saw nothing but the darkness, for the moon had long since fled to the other side of Arda. At least there were no torches winding their way through the ruins, and so perhaps she could rest for a while in this sanctuary. Though it was musty and stale, the air in the chamber felt pleasantly cool against her heated, sweaty skin.

Walking deeper inside, she blundered into a large, smooth piece of stone. Her fingers moved over the cold surface and down the edge of the block. The object was a long slab of intact marble with only a few fissures to mar its surface. She dropped the piece of stone which she had carried with her, wincing as she heard the sound of its crash echoing throughout the chamber. Drifting along the edge of the block, her fingertips slid off when she came to the end of the smooth slab. She estimated that the huge bier of marble was more than seven feet long, possibly more, and stood higher than her waist.

Dropping to her knees, she traced along the intricate scrollwork of curious design. She could discern by touch the outlines of flowers and vines entwined, curved and winding around upright figures. The images made their way from the base to the top of the immense marble bed. Goldwyn touched the smooth surface again before rising to her feet. Looking back, she saw that only a few paces separated her from the column of gray light which shone dimly through the doorway. Perhaps she should turn back, but she felt so very exhausted. She would rest a while before venturing back outside.

Still, though, she knew that she must be very cautious, for, with no light to guide her, she could easily become lost in this dark and dreary labyrinth. As she slowly crept forward, she wondered whether the floor beneath her was solid, or if it might suddenly break off in an abrupt chasm. A shiver of fear coursed down her spine as she thought of lying injured and alone in this fearsome place where no one would ever find her. How very much like being buried alive such a fate would be! She began to feel as though the darkness were closing in all about her, like the dirt of an ignoble grave, suffocating her, crushing her ribcage, closing off her lungs with its great, heavy weight. She rubbed her hand across her forehead. What foolish thoughts! She must not think of such things, but instead regard her situation with calm reasoning!

Beyond the great stone bed, the chamber led into a hallway, and, putting out each hand, Goldwyn could touch both walls on either side. Guiding herself with the tips of her fingers, she edged farther ahead and felt a crack in the stone wall. As she moved her fingers along the rent, she could feel drops of moisture. She judged that, in times past, the roof above must have tilted and broken, allowing rainwater to seep into the interior. As though compelled by some force, she ventured deeper into the darkness until the musty damp odor almost overcame her. Her fingers traced over the walls and then suddenly her left hand plunged into nothingness. She was afraid to leave the safety of the right wall, fearing that if she did, she would lose all bearing and wander blindly through the darkness.

Goldwyn mused upon what great wonder of the architect's skills this structure must have been long ago. She let her imagination take flight, and she thought of the banqueting hall of some great lord where once had been mirth and revelry. She reflected with amusement how surprised the lords and ladies would be if they turned around and saw her, a woman not of noble birth, at their great party. "But the feast is long over, and the guests have gone."

The fingertips of her right hand tracing along the side of the chamber, her left touching nothing but the cool air, she felt her way forward until she once more touched something solid with her left hand. She kept her fingers upon the security of the right wall as her left explored the large stone. She discovered that it was as long as the first slab had been, but resting upon the top of this one was something firm and rough to the touch - a discarded goblet, a lamp?

Moving her fingers over its surface, she stroked its texture and found to her dismay that the object was neither goblet nor lamp. Groping with her fingers, she encircled the thing and picked it up. By its feel and weight, she could tell that the object was some kind of short sword. She grasped the hilt tightly, hoping that its blade would offer some protection, but the hilt broke from the blade and bled rust in her hand.

"The broken roof!" she thought as she returned the hilt to the slab. "The rain has turned the sword to ruin!"

Goldwyn used the hem of her skirt to wipe away the slivers of scaly iron which clung to her hand. Suddenly, everything became clear to her - this place was an ancient Gondorian tomb, the home of the dead. Those slabs in the first chamber were the biers upon which dead noblemen had been placed in their final slumber. Undoubtedly, the rusty sword had once rested upon the chest of some long dead lord as he slept in eternal repose. "But why the absence of skeletons in the first room and then this one?" she wondered, and then she knew: they had either turned to dust long ago or else they had been desecrated by the malice of the orcs.

While others might have fled in terror from the crypt as soon as they had realized what it was, Goldwyn was not easily frightened, and she certainly was not superstitious. The dead were powerless to harm the living, and she need not have any fear of staying in the tomb whilst she recovered her strength. Perhaps the Southron slavers, being ignorant men, would be far too frightened to search the crypt. They might even conclude that none of the captives would dare chose such a grim location for their hiding place. How strange it was, she mused, to find refuge in a place that the superstitious would deem as one filled only with dread!

Continuing to explore the chamber, Goldwyn came to another doorway, partly blocked by rubble. Denied the light of day or torch, her fingers served as her eyes. Reaching out and down, they found a jumble of broken stone. She could go no further unless she climbed over the obstruction, but perhaps it was just as well that the way was barred. She was afraid even to guess where the passage ahead might lead. Perhaps only a labyrinth of corridors and broken chambers lay deeper inside the crypt, and she feared that she would become hopelessly lost if she dared climb over the wreckage to the room beyond.

"'Twould only be folly to venture farther than I have," Goldwyn reasoned. As it was, she hoped that she had not wandered so far from the main entrance that she could not see the light of dawn when it shone through that long, rectangular doorway. She sat down, resting her back against the wall, and realized how utterly exhausted and thirsty she was. She did not dare lap up the rank water that pooled here and there upon the broken marble floor. The structure was cold and silent, a place of little solace, save to bats and other creatures that accepted its grim refuge. Though she now trembled from the chill and her face and hands felt clammy, she resolved to wait until daylight to leave this dark sanctuary.

As Goldwyn rested, she began to ponder what should be her course upon the morrow. Perhaps she should go back and attempt to find her sons? There was little likelihood that she could locate them unless they had been recaptured by the slavers. The only way that could be determined with certainty was for her to give herself up to the slavers and beg them to return her to the chains. She would never accept slavery again unless she was convinced that her sons had been taken.

Goldwyn fought her doubts and despair, vacillating as she considered her next action. Her heart ached for her sons, and the tears began to trickle down her face. She only hoped that she had done the best thing by leaving them and attempting to lure the orcs away from their hiding place. She questioned whether her course of action had been the right one or not. Nothing made sense anymore in this world that had been shaken upon its foundations.

"Perhaps at least they will have a chance now," Goldwyn mused. "I pray that my sons have evaded the orcs and are now hiding along the riverbank." She was certain, though, that the orcs had overlooked her sons when she had dashed past. Intent upon pursuing the mother, they would forget about the sons. "Fródwine is a wise lad and will take care of his brothers. How like his father!"

Leaning forward, Goldwyn wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin atop them. How she wished that her husband had not answered the call and hastened off to war! How she wished so many things! Her troubled thoughts began to gather about her like black ravens flocking around a carcass. She even questioned whether her husband now dwelt in the halls of the fathers, or if he were a wandering spirit, doomed to know no peace. Could he see her? Could he see the boys? She hoped that, if his spirit could cross the barrier and pass beyond the veil that separated the living from the dead, he would be able to guide their sons, and strengthen their hearts.

"Do ghosts perceive people clearly while all we can do is sense them sometimes?" These thoughts were far too heavy and complicated, and she had begun to feel deplorably weary. She stared pensively into the gloom until her head nodded and a lethargy slowly stole over her.

Oft times sweet dreams and thoughts of what once had been are much to be preferred than the grim reality of cold dawn... The appeal of gentle slumber was a tantalizing one, lulling her senses into a soft tranquility. She would sleep for only a short while and allow her mind to dwell upon better times. A gentle smile upon her face, she felt a relaxing peace descend upon her, and remembered herself as a young girl.

Upon her shoulder she felt the gentle hand of her mother shaking her to wakefulness. "Do you forget what today is?" her mother asked her, mild disapproval in her voice. Even though it was her wedding day, Goldwyn would not be excused from all the many tasks that remained to be done, and she must be about them.

Soon she was dressed and in the kitchen with her mother, sister and the servant girl. The other women had already mixed and kneaded the dough for the bread and set it aside to allow the dough to rise. Goldwyn's mother was beaming with pride and joy as she reminded her of what a propitious match that she had made with Fasthelm son of Fastred. The father of her betrothed was the owner of a prosperous carpentry business, passed down to him by his father before him. Though the years of old Fastred were great, he still thrived, but now he much preferred to spend his time telling stories to his many grandchildren rather than building houses or furniture.

Goldwyn blushed when her mother predicted that within the coming year, Fastred would be a grandfather once again, this time to the child of Fasthelm and Goldwyn. The family of her betrothed was a well-respected one, and, as her mother happily described them, "rather affluent." They were situated high in the class of ceorls. The strong young man who would become her husband that afternoon was highly respected, for his skill was well known throughout that section of the Eastfold. Many were pleased to commission him to construct houses, barns and sheds for them or craft their furniture or farm implements. Certainly, Goldwyn would be well-situated after the marriage.

One of Fasthelm's ancestors had been a guard in the thane's service. Honored for his commendable record, he had been given a goodly sized plot of land which spread out towards the north. In return for this great gift, every son who came after him would tend after the lord's fences, assist in the construction of new buildings, and do other such tasks. Though often the duties of the more wealthy peasants called for delivering messages for their lords, the men of Fasthelm's family were seldom called upon for that duty.

Goldwyn smiled in her sleep, but the sweet expression turned into a grimace when she awakened from the pleasant dream. She shivered with the chill, for it seemed that the chamber had grown colder. "That blissful dream was certainly not long enough," she thought as all the images of her wedding day fled before the cold reality of the dismal place where she now sat. Hunched forward, her back was aching, and with a groan, she straightened her spine and rested it against the smooth wall.

How many years had elapsed now since their wedding day? She touched her face and pondered the passage of time. Though she was only twenty-nine, there were a few faint lines tracing their way across her forehead, betwixt her brows, and at the corners of her eyes. There were other telltale lines faintly discernible about her lips. No, the years that had passed since she was a bride of sixteen had told. Still, though, Fasthelm had always assured her that she was comely and that the lines were too slight to be noticed and, besides, what could be seen only added to her beauty.

"The big oaf," she thought with fondness, "he always sought to flatter me."

Far better to think of those happy days that had passed into the realm of gentle memory than to dwell upon the dark desolation that lay about her. She closed her eyes again and the years rolled away into a gray mist that slowly began to come into sharp focus. The sun was bright and golden in the blue sky of that day in September when she and Fasthelm had stood together in the garden of her parents' home. Though the house was an ample one and spacious, there were far too many uncles and aunts, cousins and kinsmen than could comfortably be lodged in the confines of their modest hall. And so as the bride and groom clasped each other's hands and gazed into the eyes of the other, the ripe apples in the canopy of branches above them foretold the bounteous splendor of autumn.

As the family and guests beamed at them and nodded their approval, Fasthelm had clasped her face between his hands and bent down and tenderly kissed her lips. Standing back to behold her sweet beauty, he smiled into her face. Down the course of the years, she could still hear his voice, deep and husky with emotion - "My beloved, you make a splendid bride. I am a lucky man!" He was not satisfied with kissing only her lips, no, not Fasthelm! Pressing her bosom to his chest, his tongue found the prominent tan mole upon her upper cheek and the smaller, darker one to the left of her chin. "I have taken quite a fancy to those exquisite beauty marks, my lovely bride, and intend to buss them quite often."

The assemblage nodded and beamed and chuckled and fussed over the pair, congratulating Fasthelm on his choice of a bride. Her mother, becoming impatient and fearing that the food would grow cold, ordered them all to the wedding feast. Life was perfect on that September day almost thirteen years ago.

Goldwyn smiled in her slumbers as she heard his deep voice whispering into her ear, "You make a splendid bride." He would repeat these words again and again as his lips found the beauty marks on her face and caressed them with his tongue. "I have taken quite a fancy to these spots..." She could hear his beloved voice once again, but it seemed to be coming from a great distance, only half-recalled like the memory of the touch of a strong hand upon her face.

The sound of a sigh eased out of the peace of the shadowy abode of the dead and touched her mind like gentle fingers...


	2. Possessed by Love

_**Warning:**__ This chapter has mature scenes and disturbing imagery..._

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"Goldwyn..."

That was his voice, that of Fasthelm her husband! She was certain of it! Goldwyn opened her eyes and looked all about the gloomy crypt. She must have dozed off for a moment and dreamt of the day of her wedding. "Still dreaming," she thought, as a slight smile curved her lips.

"Goldwyn..."

Unmistakably his, recognizable to her in an instant, there was the plaintive sound again, coming from somewhere far beyond the partly blocked doorway. The voice was disconsolate, calling to her, pleading with her, softly stroking her mind with tender reassurances. "Such a pleasant dream," she mused. It had been so vivid, though... as clear and true as her memory of Fasthelm. She saw the night vision again in her mind... His calloused fingertips caressing her face as his firm lips brushed over her beauty spots... the heat of his body as he held her trembling against him... his deep voice husky as he ran his fingers through the golden cascade of her hair and looked into her eyes...

"Goldwyn!"

His own, dear voice spoke to her now, the voice which she loved so well, the voice that she had missed so much, the voice that she had yearned and longed to hear, the voice that held her heart and soul. Oh, how she had missed that beloved sound! But how could this be? Surely her husband was dead! Was this his spirit then, come back to console her in her sorrow and aid her in her plight? How could she dare believe such a thing! But in her heart, she wanted more than anything to believe that Fasthelm had returned to her!

What a foolish thought! Fasthelm was dead! Dead and gone forever! Imagination and wistful hopes could play cruel jests with wounded minds and hearts. She had heard nothing, nothing! Only the mournful wind sighing through some crack in the broken walls and ceiling of the tomb - that was all.

Fasthelm's voice was only an aural hallucination caused by her weariness, her overtaxed mind and body. She had heard that when people were driven beyond their physical endurance, they could hear and see things that were not there. Bowing her head, Goldwyn closed her eyes and slumped in exhaustion against the wall. As soon as she regained some of her strength, she would leave this foul place.

Behind her closed lids, Goldwyn's eyes perceived a trace of light, but she only sealed her lids tighter. She was hallucinating again! She would keep her eyes tightly shut and the vision would go away.

But it did not! The light only grew brighter!

From beyond the deep passage a pale light flickered like a will-o-the-wisp in a distant marsh. A voice in her mind called to her, urging her to look up. Yes, yes, this was her husband, who had breached the cold realm of death to see her once again! How could she have doubted him? She clasped her hands to her heart. Oh, it was he! Who else could it be? Dear Fasthelm, her true love. Oh, she must hasten to him ere his spirit vanish and be gone from her forever!

But then the light flickered out and all was dark. Goldwyn blinked several times, her eyes readjusting to the gloom which lay heavy all about her. Surely what she had seen was merely another phantom of her imagination, a trick played upon her by eyes unaccustomed to such deep and impenetrable darkness. There was no light; there had never been any light. How could there have been? She was the only living creature within these somber halls, save perhaps for the multitude of tiny spiders which spun their webs between stone columns and within long-forgotten corners.

Could it have been the dim glow of the night, visible through some unnoticed rent in the ancient stone? Her head tilted upward and her eyes scanned the ceiling, searching for any cracks which may have allowed a small shaft of starlight to seep within. But there was nothing, only more darkness. The musty smell which clung to the stagnant air proved the stability of the marble, for if any fresh zephyrs from outside were allowed entry, they would have lessened the stench of decay in these dark halls of the dead. There had been no sound. There had been no light. There had been nothing. She was a fool for ever thinking there could have been anything.

"It was only my weary mind playing tricks upon me," she concluded, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. "I will prove to myself that there is nothing there by venturing forward." Pressing her hand against her bosom, Goldwyn took a deep breath to steady herself and then rose to her feet.

As she climbed cautiously over the jumble of fallen stone which partially blocked the doorway, she felt something clutch at the hem of her skirt. Gasping in alarm, she froze in terror, icy prickles sending tremors down her spine. Slowly she turned around, expecting to see the gleaming eyes of some ghoulish denizen of the crypt, its clawed, bony fingers grasping her skirt, preparing to drag her down with him into the cold earth. She let out a sigh of relief when she find naught but the darkness facing her.

Swallowing hard, she dared herself to investigate just what had captured her dress. She almost laughed when her fingers discovered that her skirt had been caught by nothing more than a jagged fragment of rock that was held betwixt two larger chunks.

"You worry yourself needlessly," she chided herself. Feeling her way with her hands and stepping cautiously, she carefully climbed to the top of the barrier. All was quiet, save for the sound of her breathing. Then partway down the other side, she misjudged her footing in the loose debris, sending a landslide of small rocks crashing down. She held her breath and winced as she heard them clatter against the marble floor beyond.

At last she found herself on solid footing once again. When she took a step forward, she was greeted by a mass of sticky filaments which clung to her face and body, giving evidence that nothing living save the spiders had passed this way for endless years. Tearing them away from her face and hair, she flung them aside in disgust and plucked off the clinging remainders of the threads with her fingers.

Goldwyn took a deep breath and pondered her next step. She had to find her bearings before advancing, and to do that, she must guide herself by her hands. Her right hand groped for the wall, but suddenly she beheld a sight which caused her arm to go rigid, hanging suspended in space, frozen, not even a finger capable of moving. Taking shape far away in the depths of the cavernous chamber was a tiny shimmer of pale green light. There was no mistaking that phosphorescent glow now! Her eyes had not betrayed her after all!

Her breath caught in her chest as her heart pounded wildly, a scream held trapped within the depths of her throat. With wide, terrified eyes, she beheld the orb of light grow brighter and brighter until it illuminated the whole chamber. She watched breathlessly, wondering what phantasmagoric vision that her awe-struck eyes beheld.

And then, slowly, gaining strength by each agonizing moment, the glimmering beam took shape, coalescing gradually, forming shape from the incorporeal glow. Materializing into substance before her eyes was the translucent image of her husband, holding out a brawny arm, palm extended, beckoning towards her. This was no dream or illusion! He had come back, breaking the bonds of the cold spectre of death that had robbed him from her and held him captive! A look of rapturous wonder came over her face as her fear fled away. Blissful, wonderful warmth filled her heart as she beheld the presence of her beloved, and she flung her hand to her bosom as emotion overflowed within her.

The voice called to her softly, imploring. "Long have I searched for you, through dark places and desolate."

"Oh, my love!" Goldwyn exclaimed, fresh hope swelling in her heart. The old tales were true! Spirits had the power to come back! Oh, how she longed to clasp his hand once again!

"How I have hungered for you! Will you let me come near?" the voice murmured gently, caressing her soul with the serenity of its familiarity. She knew that it was his, her own husband's voice, talking to her in those comforting tones which he had used on quiet evenings when the boys were asleep. Now he spoke to her again, even from beyond the grave!

"Oh, yes, my husband! How I have yearned for your touch all these many months that you have been gone!"

Goldwyn felt a cool hand on hers and attempted to catch it within her grasp. Much to her disappointment, her fingers touched only the invisible ethers and passed through, grasping nothing but the hand of memory. A caressing touch brushed against her cheek, and she smiled with wistful sadness.

"But I perceive that you still hold some fear of me. How can this be? Surely you do not believe that I am some chimera?" The voice sounded hurt, disbelieving, incredulous. "Have I not proved to you that I am... your... husband?"

"'Tis no fear of you, but of this dread place," she offered in excuse, embarrassed that he had perceived her apprehension.

"There is naught to fear from me, but if you do not wish my presence..." The sentence dwindled away in sadness.

"No, no! I have missed you for so long!" How could she bear to cast him off, to lose him when they had just found each other again!

The sorrowful look upon the spirit's face changed into a wistful smile. "Then willingly open your arms, your heart, and your soul, so that we may commune, to be as one as we once were."

A low, murmuring moan escaped her lips as she closed her eyes and stretched her arms out to him. "I want that so much... so very much! I have been lost without you! There is nothing without you, my husband! I am surrounded by enemies and took shelter in this dread place from the orcs who chase me!"

"Naught will ever harm you while I am your protector. Never do you need to be separated from me, for I have come back for my own," the voice barely whispered.

"Oh, my love!" she moaned as she felt lips upon hers, her husband's lips.

"Forever..."

She felt comforting arms go about her waist and saw his face misted through the veil of her tears, like a phantom in a rainstorm. As she leaned against him, she felt his hand stroke up and down her back. "No dream this!" she sighed as his presence grew ever more substantial. His slow, tender caresses reverberated deep within her being. She heard him moaning and felt herself being gently lowered to the floor.

The transparency of his form gave way to flesh and blood, and Goldwyn could see the blue eyes and striking features of her husband clearly now. The air about them began to glow with a greenish hue, a livid, sickening shade, phosphorescent like the glow emitted by decaying corpses. A dull ache began to throb behind her temples, and she felt weak, so weak. Oh, what was happening to her? Surely the feeling was only the rushing emotion and excitement of seeing him once again and the exhaustion brought on by her desperate flight through the ruins.

"What is the light that shimmers around you?"

"An illusion of the mind, my love," the voice assured her. "I have you; do not be afraid."

Goldwyn tried to make herself comfortable, cradling the back of her head on her arm, sheltering it from the rough stone floor. She closed her eyes, and when her eyelashes fluttered open, she was in her own bed once again. A candle glowed on a table by the window and she felt at peace as her husband slid into bed beside her. Clasping her arms around his neck, she held him as his lips came down upon hers in an urgent kiss.

There was a vague sense of shuddering regret as she felt the spirit's cool essences invade the sanctity of her being. At the moment of penetration, she felt utterly voluptuous, as though her body had been sumptuously prepared for a carnal feast of sin. Her hard nipples were covered with honey, her jutting breasts perfumed and garlanded with ripened fruit, her thighs dripping with cream and spread wide, obscenely inviting all men to come and partake. Delighting in visions of all manner of fornication and debauchery, she writhed in languorous ecstasy upon an altar of lust, thrusting her hips upward. Her hand moved down, beckoning the living, the dead, and those who dwelt between the realms to sate their hunger upon the chalice of dew-drenched strawberries which lay betwixt her quivering ivory legs and drink of the sweet ambrosia which flowed like waterfalls from her deep pools of seething passion.

Though her head began to throb with a greater intensity, the pleasure was greater than the pain as the phantom thrust deeply into her chamber of love. He kissed her again with devouring caresses and held her tightly as he twisted inside her like a serpent.

"Soon to be mine," he murmured. "I will claim you at last!"

"Oh yes," she moaned, her back arching in ecstasy.

"All mine," the voice hissed. Suddenly Goldwyn felt as cold as the marble floor beneath her as tingling fingers of fiery ice clenched her body. A shudder tore down her spine, and she screamed when she felt a tugging, ripping sensation, as though everything vital inside her was being wrenched from her body. She lay there, half in a swoon, powerless to combat what was being done to her. And the cold! It was now intense, frigid, enveloping her in its chill. And the pain! It raced through her body, as though her being were fragmenting into splinters of cascading light.

"You are mine," the voice declared triumphantly, "all mine... you... your body..." The voice was chanting over and over, the words drumming into her mind with a solemn finality. No longer did this being sound like her husband, but alien, a stranger, an intruder. "Your beautiful body... how I want it..." His kisses grew more ardent, and her anguish intensified.

"What are you doing to me?!" she cried, powerless to resist him and his will over her.

"Our union will soon be complete," the voice told her. "And then it will be over, all over."

"I am in pain," she mumbled, struggling weakly like a dazed insect in a spider's web. "Please stop!" She wondered momentarily why his body felt so heavy, like the crushing force of a grindstone, forcing her heart to labor as she struggled to breathe. Her husband had always been so gentle, even in his deepest passion.

"Only a little more pain," the voice comforted, "until all desire is realized."

The spirit looked down at her, smiling as he caressed her face with long, thin fingers. So gentle, so comforting... so cool and soothing. Goldwyn felt her body relax, the pain seeping away to be replaced by a sense of dreamy lassitude. She sighed in deep contentment, as though her spent breath would drive all the unhappiness from her life and soul. Her life flickered with only a pale glimmer, her heart laboring to beat, her breathing shallow. Her body felt lightweight, as though she could float away. Indeed, one tiny, fraying silver thread was all that held her spirit to her frail body. She no longer cared what he did to her as long as he stayed inside her, joined to her... forever.

As the demon neared the boiling maelstrom of his release, his howling cries of triumph echoed through the chambers of her mind. The whirling torrent of his essence spread throughout her body, rolling through her being like liquid, melding into her blood, merging with every sinew, nerve and bone. Every fibre of her body was being ripped, shredded and crushed in a wine-press that would sunder soul from flesh. But she did not care. She was floating away in his arms...

"I want to sleep," Goldwyn mumbled. "I am so very sleepy..."

"Then sleep now and be at peace forever."

Far away, a great, dark door began to grind closed with a grim finality. A furtive shadowy form darted across her mind, and she raised an arm to drive it away. In spite of her protests, the great paw of a massive catlike beast with gleaming silver fur caught the door as it swung shut. The hinges resisted, groaning in complaint, but, growling, the beast thrust the door aside and flung it from its hinges. She turned her head to watch the interloper as it crouched upon coiled muscles, preparing to spring upon a dark serpent.

"No, no!" The thing that had bored its way into her body hissed like an icy serpent whose prey was crawling just outside of his reach. Goldwyn felt his unseen tentacles loosen their hold upon her soul and flesh. Her eyes closed, she lay panting upon the stone cold floor, her dress pushed up around her hips, her thighs spread wide apart. A vision came to her of Fasthelm lying upon a battlefield in the darkest hour of the cold night, a lance thrust through a great, bleeding hole in his chest. His arms reached out for her, clutching, grasping, longing to hold her in his dying moments.

"The light is blinding me!" the phantom screamed in her face, even as the scene changed into a vision of the explosion of the sun's fiery fury at the very moment of her advent. "Fire and the baleful light of dawn!"

Far towards the entrance of the crypt, there was the sound of a great crash, as though some heavy weight had been hurled aside.

"Quickly, men!" a man shouted at the entrance of the tomb. "Someone is in here! I heard the sound of a woman screaming! Hold the light for me!"

Brandishing torches, the men stormed into the chamber. Dimly, as though through a mist, Goldwyn beheld the flicker of torches and lamps. The ethereal being coalesced into dust particles, hanging above her, just out of her reach. Slowly the image began to dematerialize and fade away. The evil presence retreated completely from Goldwyn's body, but there was little rejoicing at its defeat. She felt a deep ache, an endless chasm of sorrow, as though the wraith had rent her heart in twain and stolen part of her soul.

"Do not leave me, Fasthelm! Come back!" she wailed as she extended her arms upward, reaching for him, but he was gone, slid away back whence he had come. The somber blackness of the crypt overcame her, and she fell back in a swoon upon the floor.

As through a mocking dream, she heard the spirit's railing words, "I will return, and when I do, there will be no more struggle and you shall be MINE!"

Handing the torch to one of the orcs, Tushratta bent down and lowered Goldwyn's skirt to cover her wantonly exposed nudity. "This is one of the women who escaped!" he exclaimed, gently touching her face. "I had thought someone with her, for she was reaching out as though to clasp a lover. Yet there is no other here save her!" He shook his head in bewilderment. "And her words - though I do not know her language, her voice was wrenched with sorrow! She is so pale... her skin is cold and clammy, as though death itself has kissed it!" Laying his ear to her chest, he picked up her wrist and counted her pulse beats. "The lady's heart is scarcely beating!"

An orc bent down on his haunches and peered into the woman's face. "What ails the wench, Physician?"

"A fainting spell caused by some great terror," Tushratta muttered as he stooped down and picked the woman up in his arms. "The atmosphere of this damp place is unhealthful, probably contaminated by vaporous mists that sometimes gather about old tombs and mines! We must take her from this foul place and get her into the pure air! Hold the light for me!"

"Let's get out of here," the orc muttered, looking about himself fearfully. "Garn! This old Gondorian tomb gives me the creeps! There are spirits here, ancient ones, dark and evil, and they don't want us here!"

Eager to leave the place of dread, they were quickly down the steps, gathering in front of the mausoleum. "You there," the physician motioned to an orc nearby, "spread your cloak upon the ground and I will lay her atop it. The rest of you are to construct a stretcher out of spears and cloaks."

As Tushratta waited, he knelt down beside Goldwyn's prone form, frowning as his eyes swept over her body. There was no sign of any injury that he could see. Giving her a perfunctory examination, the physician was satisfied that there were no obvious broken bones, but he was completely baffled as to what was the nature of her ailment.

"Lady, what strange malady has befallen you?" The physician looked down at her closed eyelashes, which were a dark smudge against her ashen face. Marveling at her beauty, he saw her as the image of the Goddess of Love, wrought marvelously in ivory and gold. Her hair gleamed in the soft torchlight like burnished gold, and he longed to stroke the lustrous strands of silk.

When the orcs had finished preparing the stretcher, the physician placed the lady upon it, pillowing her head upon one of his men's cloaks and covering her with his own. Satisfied that she was secure, he looked up to see the first light of dawn tinging the eastern sky over the mausoleum.

"Forward, men! Let us get back to camp!"

"Aye, Master!"

"Lady, what have you endured this night?" Tushratta asked silently as he walked beside her stretcher. "What have you seen that has left you chilled and speechless? I am baffled... I wonder..." He stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "I must consult with my scrolls when I return to the camp. Perhaps the answer lies there."


	3. On Their Own

Chapter Written by Angmar

Concealed behind a large pile of rubble near the ruined aqueduct, the three sons of Goldwyn remained hidden until the silence seemed almost overpowering. The only sounds were the boys' measured breathing and the trilling call of a night bird somewhere towards the Anduin.

"Fródwine, it has been a long time since we saw any torches or heard any shouts. Do you think the orcs will come back to look for us?" Frumgár asked uncertainly.

"There is no way of knowing, but we must leave this wretched place in case they do. Wake up Fritha," Fródwine whispered urgently. Rising to his feet, he stretched prodigiously, limbering up his long arms and legs.

"Fritha is not asleep. He is only pretending. As a matter of fact, he bit me twice on the hand earlier tonight," an indignant Frumgár retorted.

"You would bite, too, if someone stuck his hand over your mouth!" the youngest boy protested, rallying up from his feigned sleep.

"It was the only way I could keep you quiet," Frumgár muttered. He gingerly rose to his feet, his legs numb from crouching on the chilly ground. Tugging at his brother's arm, he ordered, "Come on, Fritha! You heard him! We have to go now!"

"We must get distance between this place and ourselves," Fródwine repeated. "Is your hand bleeding where our gentle little brother bit you, Frumgár?"

"No, just a little sore where the brat attacked me!"

"Fritha, you really should not bite people, you know," Fródwine chided, the gravity of his voice hiding his sarcasm. "Orcs can smell blood. They will hear your whining, and when they do, they will come back and stick a spear through your belly and spit you up like a pig over the fire."

"Do not say things like that, Fródwine!" Fritha pled, looking about fearfully as he gripped Frumgár's hand for comfort. "You are scaring me!"

"Fródwine, I told you that my hand was not hurt, so let us talk about what we do now." Frumgár turned to his elder brother, not approving of the way he was scaring Fritha. "Which way are we going?" When Fródwine did not answer, Frumgár snorted. "You do not even know, do you?" When he still received no response from his elder brother, he clenched Fritha's cold hand even tighter. "We have to find Mother!" Always a timid boy, Frumgár felt his stomach churn and was afraid he might vomit. On the verge of tears, he sucked his lower lip into his mouth and gnawed upon it.

"No. That is not what she wanted us to do," Fródwine replied stubbornly.

"Fródwine, what did she tell you before she left?" Frumgár demanded, not certain of anything anymore, except that they were being hunted by enemies, his older brother was bullying him, and his mother was no longer there to protect him.

"She told me to take you home, and that she..." Fródwine fumbled for the words, "...would join us later. Anyway, this is no place to discuss the matter, so be quiet."

"Fródwine," exclaimed a skeptical Frumgár, "I do not believe you! Where is she and when will she be back?"

"Soon." With that word, Fródwine increased his pace and left the two younger boys behind.

"Wait!" hissed Frumgár as his fingers slid out of Fritha's and he scrambled to catch up with Fródwine. "Where are we going?"

"Home," came Fródwine's terse reply.

"Frumgár! Do not leave me!" Fritha wailed, close to tears. All around the little boy lay dark piles of rubble and broken columns. Fritha was convinced that each shadowy mound hid some monster, orc or ghoul. He could feel their eyes all around him, watching and waiting until he drew too close to one of their lairs. Then they would pounce out...

Fritha had a theory about why the horrifying red eyes of the monsters could not be seen all the time. They could will their eyes to glow if they wished, but if they desired to take one by surprise, they would dim the fell brilliance of their fiery orbs. Fritha felt the hair rise at the nape of his neck and goose-bumps prickling his flesh as they rose on his arms. What if... those things were planning to spring upon them at that very moment...

"Fródwine! I am scared, Fródwine! Wait for me!" This was no time to tarry until the ghouls launched their attacks! The little boy bounded after his two older brothers as though the fiends of hell were nipping at his heels.

**«•»«•»«•»**

As Fródwine forged onward through the bleak ruins of Osgiliath, his two younger brothers struggled to keep up with his long strides. Although the monsters had never materialized, Fritha fretted at the constant hurrying and Frumgár added his share of grumbling. After walking for what seemed to him like a very long time, Fritha could not bear any more. Pulling back on Frumgár's hand and digging in with his heels on the ground, he delivered his ultimatum.

"I want to find Mother now and I am not going one step more!" Fritha stated adamantly, stomping his foot for emphasis.

"Fródwine, Fritha is not going to budge! We cannot see where we are going. We are walking farther and farther away from where Mother left us. Maybe she is waiting back there for us. Let us go back and look for her... please!" Frumgár's words came out in a rapid burst, bordering on hysteria. When his mother had told him that they were going to escape, anything seemed possible, but now without her, he was lost and alone. Everything was becoming worse and worse, blacker and blacker, and he had never been more afraid in all his life.

"No, we are not going back!" Fródwine set his mouth into a stern line and resolutely slogged on ahead.

"Brother, this is a foolish idea!" Frumgár's voice was almost sobbing. "Please let us go back!"

"I have to pee!" Fritha whimpered as he jumped from one leg to another, clutching himself.

"You always have to pee!" the oldest brother grumbled as he halted and folded his arms across his chest. "If it were your own funeral, you would sit up in your barrow and announce to one and all that you must relieve your bladder! When you die, they will have to cut a hole in the side of your tomb so that you can piss out the window! Your howe will be lined with chamber-pots so that whenever you have a terrible urge, you can fill them all one by one!"

"Do not say things like that, Fródwine!" Fritha exclaimed as he kicked the ground in front of him. "You are just making it worse, and I do not want to think about tombs and dying!"

"Just pee and be quiet about it then!" Frumgár ordered gruffly.

"I have held it so long now... I do not think I can even pee any more!"

"Just go, Fritha!"

Stomping away, Fritha glanced back over his shoulder at them. "Do not look!"

"I am looking, Fritha! I am looking!" Frumgár deviled him, pointing his finger at the back of his brother, who stood facing a large rock. "You are a little girl and have to squat and pee! Look at Fritha! He has to squat! He has to squat!"

"You are both mean to me, and I still cannot pee!" Turning back to look at them, Fritha stuck out his tongue.

"Pretend the rock is an orc's face!" Frumgár suggested helpfully.

They heard a small, contented sigh of relief as a stream of liquid splashed against the stone.

"Are you finished yet?" Fródwine asked impatiently.

"Just about."

"Now?" encouraged Frumgár.

"Yes, I hit him right in the eye!" Fritha boasted as he turned around and walked back to them.

"With that victory beneath your belt, you are a real warrior now," Fródwine muttered. "Let us go! Frumgár, hold his hand. I will lead the way!"

"You do not even know the way!"

"Do you know it better than I do?" Fródwine turned and gave his brother a disdainful look.

"Stop!" implored Frumgár as he held up his right hand.

"What is it now?" Fródwine asked, greatly irritated.

"I have to pee, too!"

"What did the two of you do, drink a whole barrel of water?" groaned Fródwine. "The two of you are going to do nothing but urinate all the way back to the Mark! Hurry up!"

There was another sound of splashing liquid, and then a satisfied grunt, "All done!"

"Finally! Let us go!"

***

Together the three boys skirted around ruined buildings and piles of rubble, making their way through what had once been the proud city of Osgiliath.

"Oh!" exclaimed Fritha when they had passed by a massive column which had toppled over and broken into three pieces. The ground was littered with large chunks of the ruined support, making walking even more difficult here than it had been at other places.

"What is wrong now?" Frumgár queried.

"I hurt my foot," whimpered the youngest brother.

"Nonsense!" muttered Fródwine, a look of total indignation on his face. "You are lying because you are too lazy to walk."

"But I did!"

"Come on! Get moving!"

"I cannot!"

"Well then, sit down and we will leave you here. Then when a huge, stinking orc with bright, yellow gleaming eyes, terrible long teeth and sharp claws, and really foul breath comes along, he will gobble you up, and there will be one less brother for me to have to worry about."

"No, no, I can run! Really, I can!" Fritha shivered as he thought of the foul orcs. "Why do Fródwine and Frumgár always have to taunt me just because I am the youngest?" he complained to himself, despising his brothers. "I hate them! They are so mean to me! They always make me do things that I do not want to do!"

"Come, little brother." Feeling sorry for him, Frumgár reached out to Fritha. "I will help you. Take my hand." Gratefully the younger boy grasped his brother's fingers.

**«•»«•»«•»**

The two younger boys could not match the longer strides of their long-legged brother for any length of time. Before they had gone very far, they had slackened behind once again.

"Fródwine, please stop," Frumgár panted. "Fritha is just too little and he has to rest!"

"All right, let us stop here, down behind this statue," Fródwine growled. His brothers looked at him in gratitude as they sank to the ground. "But do not get too comfortable! We cannot stay here long!"

As they lay there panting, their breath coming in great gasps, Fródwine pointed towards their right, where a large dark mass stood outlined against the lighter shade of the eastern horizon. "That must be the Great River over there where the trees are growing. That means we are going the way we should."

"I am glad you know what the right way is," Frumgár muttered skeptically. Why did Fródwine always have to be so overbearing and all knowing? Just because he was their big brother did not make him any better than they were! Frumgár was very doubtful that Fródwine had the slightest idea where they were. "We will probably walk around and around in circles and get lost. Then the orcs will find us," he thought dismally.

"I am scared!" wailed Fritha. "I want to go back!"

"That would not be such a bad idea," Frumgár suggested hopefully, thinking about the great orc that must be waiting for them just ahead in the darkness.

"No! Bah! You sluggards have rested long enough. Let us move on!"

"Oh, no," Frumgár groaned as he struggled to his feet, dragging an unwilling Fritha behind him.

Fródwine would have made a good military commander. Impervious to his brothers' grumbling complaints, skinned knees and bruises, he kept them plodding steadily along the Anduin, alternately marching and resting through the remainder of the night. As the sky grew lighter towards the east, Fródwine grudgingly accepted the fact that his brothers could go no farther that morning without rest.

"Follow me... Frumgár, you serve as rear guard," he briskly directed them as he set off down the river bank.

"Fródwine, this is no game! I am not able to guard us against anything!" Comparing himself to his older brother, Frumgár always felt inferior. Fródwine was so cocksure of himself while he was indecisive and faltering.

"That is what is wrong with you, Frumgár. You have no belief in yourself! Do not think about it too much, though. Just do what I tell you!"

"There is his damnable smug arrogance again," Frumgár thought with a grimace.

**«•»«•»«•»**

Throughout the long walk, Fródwine's mind had been set on finding a good location for a camp. He did not want to risk placing it on the open plain of the river where they could be seen easily. They would have to do that soon enough, but maybe by then, the pursuit for them would have died down. How much time would anyone spend on searching for three young boys anyway?

At last he found a place where the young trees grew closely together, offering better cover for them. His next order of the day was to look for more food to supplement their meager larder. If only he had a fishing hook and line!

Perhaps he could tear his worn shirt into thin strips and make a substitute for a line? "Far too thick; the fish would detect that immediately," he thought in frustration. Perhaps he could spear the fish with a sharp stick? Hit them with rocks? Even if he could catch them, there would be no way to cook the fish. Though they were hungry, the thought of eating raw fish was distasteful. Fródwine did not like to think about the time when they might be so desperate that they would be willing to eat anything. There would be time to think of that later, but at that moment, he needed some rest.

"Here we will sleep," Fródwine pointed to a spot beneath a leafless plane tree. "Not elaborate," he chuckled, "but at least it has a wonderful view."

"Who cares?" Frumgár groaned as he sank down on the ground. Fritha whimpered plaintively until Frumgár slung an arm over him protectively. The smallest boy was quickly sound asleep, and Frumgár soon joined him in slumber, too tired even to care about the hunger that was growing in his stomach. As the morning sun chased away the last wispy trails of morning fog, Fródwine stared moodily at the great, rising form of the White Mountains far away across the plain.

"Home," he thought, and wondered if they would ever reach it.


	4. Descent

Chapter Written by Angmar

The western slopes of the Mountains of Shadow lay brooding in darkness and mist as the dawn touched the clouds far above them and then cascaded across the summits. His mood a jumble of fragmented thoughts, Fródwine watched as the land gradually grew lighter. His gut knotted in tension and he felt the burning taste of bile rising in his throat. Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours for his brain to comprehend all that had befallen them.

When his family was captured, it marked the end of everything that they had ever known. Perhaps some little hope had still lingered when the four of them remained together. Now that was gone, turned into the taste of soot and ashes. The responsibilities cast upon him were far more than his young shoulders could bear, and his spirit bowed under the heavy load.

The torturing thoughts which had plagued his mind during the night returned with a fury. Fródwine could not rid himself of the brutal scene that kept intruding into his brain... The slaver had recaptured his mother and he was doing horrible, vile things to her. The greasy swine held her by her hair as he backhanded her repeatedly, bringing a bloody smear to her nose and lips. Throwing her to the floor, the bastard pulled off his trousers... Fródwine could hear his mother whimper in pain as the slaver crouched over her, his fat haunches pumping up and down as he ravished her... Fródwine was powerless to do anything to help her!

His emotions seared raw and his brain feeling as though it were on the verge of bursting, Fródwine sat up and dug his fingers into his arm. He wanted to feel pain... the pain would drive away these thoughts. He wanted to smash something, to pound it into dust. The tension had magnified in him so intensely that he felt like screaming, the way Fritha did when he was angry. But he was too old and he could not allow himself to find an outlet in childish tears.

Fródwine's consuming hatred for the Southron raged within him and filled him with such restlessness that sleep refused him. He yearned for rest, but it only played at the edges of his mind, eluding and mocking him. Slumber was impossible! The desire for vengeance had grown into a living, consuming force that lashed his brain with all the fury of poisonous, biting serpents. He would never know peace again!

Groaning in frustration, he slammed his fist repeatedly on the ground until his hand hurt. He felt tears creeping into his eyes. "Like a baby, a crybaby!" he berated himself in disgust, rubbing his fists fiercely in his eye sockets to ground out the tears. He would not let himself cry! Closing his eyes tightly, he forced himself to hold back the tears. How Frumgár would smirk if he saw him weeping! He would never let his brothers know he was such a weakling!

He must find slumber! Though his mind was painfully awake, his body desperately needed sleep. He could not hope to struggle through the day without it! He lay back on the unyielding ground and wiggled his body until at last he found a comfortable position facing the Anduin. He was exhausted. Finally slept crept up upon him, and he drew into its embrace like a lost child seeking his mother.

Riding upon the hazy currents of his dreams, a large fleet of ships with fifty oarsmen on each side made its way down the current of the Anduin and anchored mid-river. High atop the single mast of each ship, the green and white flag of Rohan snapped smartly in the breeze. How could this be? Were these the ghosts of the fallen warriors? Rising to his feet to view them better, he hailed the men on the ships, but they seemed unable either to see or hear him.

Fearsome Rohirric warriors, all armed to the teeth, clustered on the decks before boarding the rowboats. To the cheers of those on board, the boats were quickly lowered down the sides of the ships and onto the surface of the water. Fródwine leaned forward to see them better. To his horror, he caught the sight of a great host of the enemy which stealthily moved forward row after row towards the river.

He screamed a warning, but the men in the boats seemed unable to hear. He tried to run down the bank to give them a warning, but he found his legs were foundering in quicksand. He could only watch in dread as the enemy archers nocked their arrows, pulled the strings back to their cheeks, and sent the barbs sailing skyward. His mouth opened in a scream, he gaped as the arrows plummeted down into the men in the boats. One after another of the Rohirric warriors was cut down soundlessly as Fródwine screamed in agony.

In spite of this galling fire from the enemy on the shore, the blond-haired warriors, their muscles straining, leaned back towards the bow as they rhythmically pulled the oars. Their blades swept out over the water, then dipped down like birds rising and falling as they soared through the skies. Curses on their lips, sorrow on their faces as their comrades were cruelly cut down by the darts, still the hardy men drove ever closer to the shore. Tremendous relief flooded over Fródwine and he heard his voice join their lusty shouts as the men splashed into the water and stormed up the beach.

The fierce Southrons' curved swords caught the gleam of the sun as they crashed into the vanguard of the grim-faced Northern warriors. The mass of struggling bodies was packed so closely together that Fródwine was unable to see what was happening in the confusion. Then as bodies of wounded and dying fell to the ground, he saw a clearing appear in the melee.

Thrusting his sword into the chest of a tawny Haradric warrior, one lanky blond stalwart's blade mired itself in his enemy's ribcage. Bracing the bottom of his boot on the man's privy parts, the Rohir viciously kicked his dying enemy backwards as the sword slid out of the wound with a sickening slosh. His armor rent with a great gash, the Southron lay on the bloody ground, heaving out his last breaths in torrents of gurgling bloody foam. The Rohir turned away from his fallen foe and looked straight into Fródwine's eyes. It was his father! Fródwine grinned as he watched Fasthelm plunge his bloody sword into the Southern slaver's belly over and over again.

Cheering them onward, saluting them with his upraised fist, Fródwine was spellbound as his father and the other men raced up the beach. His heart swelled with pride and he thrilled as the Rohirrim slew more enemies, doing the good work of cleansing the land of the vile pollution of the Southrons. The Rohirrim hacked their way through masses of the foe until the bodies of the slain were stacked up like firewood. Fasthelm raised his bloody sword in triumph and disappeared from Fródwine's fervent imagination.

His mind skimming the surface of consciousness, Fródwine tried to recapture the dream, but a loud snuffling snore from Frumgár tore the hopes of that away from him. Sitting up, Fródwine looked over to his sleeping brothers in irritation. Frumgár's arm was carelessly draped over Fritha's stomach and the muscles of his hand twitched and jerked spasmodically. Fritha's face wore a ridiculous expression as he breathed in a whistling wheeze from his open mouth.

"Babies," Fródwine hissed out in disdain. How could he ever hope to lead such children homeward to the North? "An impossible task. They will bleat like sheep and piss their breeches in fear every step of the way," he reflected grimly. He estimated that they had traveled only a little over two leagues from the ruins of Osgiliath. "Not nearly good enough!" A frown puckered his brow as he tormented himself. "We must make better time tonight, or the orcs will surely overtake us! But how can we?"

An imp of a thought struck him. What if his brothers were not with him? One could go much faster than could three. What if he just left them and went back alone? He could simply slip away from his brothers while they were sleeping. He looked back at them and saw Fritha's mouth twitching in that repulsive way that he had. Just leave them behind... When he reached the Mark, Fródwine would tell everyone that they had become separated and he had been unable to find them again. His kinsmen - if any of them remained alive - would mourn their loss, tell him how brave he was, and congratulate him on making the journey home in spite of impossible odds. Perhaps the King would honor him in some way for his courage and resolve.

Fródwine's expression hardened, his mouth a tight line. It would be so easy. They would not wake up until he was far away, and then it would be too late. They could never catch up with him, and no longer would he have to bear their whining and complaining! Frumgár was a babyish coward, weak and simpering, and Fritha was a nuisance, always ready to burst into tears over nothing. They would only hold him back. Everything boiled down to self-preservation, and anyone in his position would do the same, would they not?

An uncomfortable feeling of guilt crawled its way into his mind like a worm. How could he think such thoughts! No, no! He could never betray his brothers and leave them alone and stranded on the riverbank to starve or die of exposure! Instead, he would do the right thing by them! He would take them to the Great West Road and leave them there. It was for their own good, was it not? He would give them all the food, and they would have enough to eat until a military patrol found them. The soldiers would surely turn them over to the slaver's men, and then Frumgár and Fritha would be reunited with their mother. They would be safe and no longer Fródwine's responsibility. Was that not the wisest and most prudent thing to do? That was what they wanted, was it not?

After he was rid of them, he was certain that, alone, he could travel the long journey back to Rohan. His lean, lanky body was well-muscled and strong from his labors on the farm. He was swift of foot and well-versed in woodcraft. Loping on his long legs for hours at a time, he would travel swiftly. He would exist on what fat his sparse body had stored. When necessary, he would set traps for wild animals and build fish traps in streams, and the bounty of nature would be his for the taking.

Fródwine frowned at his sleeping brothers. With the noise of Frumgár's snoring and Fritha's wheezing assaulting his ears, there was no way that he could escape back into sleep. Rising to his feet, he walked away from them until he found a spot closer to the riverbank. There, their irritating racket dulled to soft whispers, and, with the quiet, he felt himself drifting back into sleep.

**«•»«•»«•»**

He was dressed in furs that he had tanned himself from the game that he had trapped. Arising before dawn, he consumed a hasty breakfast and departed from his small camp. The sun had barely risen when he arrived at his first trap - a trail trap, an ingenious device which he had designed himself. This product of his resourceful and creative mind had been constructed from a few pieces of wood, sinew and several thin strips of leather. Unfortunately, he had been overconfident the evening before and had not smeared enough dirt and animal droppings upon the string to mask his scent. Any game that had come upon the snare during the night had been far too wily to touch a trap that reeked of the foreign scent of man.

About a quarter of a mile farther down the trail, he had far more success. He smiled in satisfaction as he beheld a large fat hare trapped in a noose. One hind foot caught in the leather, the animal dangled from the branch of a sapling. Gloating, he congratulated himself upon the high degree of mastery and resourcefulness that had gone into making these traps from only a few simple materials. "This merely proves my exceptional talents in woodcraft," he applauded himself on his considerable skill.

Taking no chances that the hare would escape, he stunned the terrified creature with a blow from a large, blunt club. Tying its legs and then freeing it from the trap, he held the struggling, terrified animal on the ground. Beating the small body until it ceased moving, he watched the creature's carcass twitch as the blood seeped from its eyes, nose and mouth.

Taking a sharp piece of rock that he used for this purpose, he removed the head and legs. Slitting the rabbit from the rear to the breastbone, he removed the scent glands and guts, tossing the severed pieces aside. He worked his fingers along the membrane under the skin to free the furry pelt in one piece. Finishing with his hurried skinning, he spread the pelt, blood side up, on the ground. He would take it back to his camp and prepare it later for curing. Then, tearing the flesh from sinew and bone, he became even more excited as he smelled the fresh scent of blood. He felt a surge of power infuse his body as he held the dripping meat high into the air as an offering to the spirits of the forest.

Growling softly, he bit into the meat, licking his lips as the animal's blood oozed from the sides of his mouth and down his chin to drip onto his leather tunic. He finished the remains of the small creature and rubbed his filled stomach contentedly. He sucked the marrow from a bone and beheld a vast procession coming from the nearby woods. A host of creatures flew, marched, crawled, slithered and swam through his bizarre dream. Hares and other game; birds of all varieties; fish, water turtles; shellfish; snakes; the wiggling larvae of insects; grasshoppers and locusts; even masses of writhing maggots all made their way into his outstretched hands.

**«•»«•»«•»**

Fródwine woke up in horror and pulled himself into a sitting position, wiped his hand across his mouth and then spat repeatedly. He could still taste the blood in his mouth! An urgent craving for water overwhelmed him. "What strange and revolting dreams have plagued me! If I continue musing over such rot, I will drive myself mad within a few days!"

Once again, he felt close to crying. "I am tormented by my thoughts when I am awake and by my dreams when I am asleep." Disgusted at himself, he rushed to the river and plunged his head into the water. Rising to the surface, he shook his long sandy hair fiercely like a dog, slinging water from his drenched hair. Pushing the tangled, wet mane out of his eyes, he lay down on his stomach at the edge of the water and drank until he felt that his insides would burst. There was still the metallic taste in his mouth, like blood! When he gazed down into the water, he was startled by his reflection. Looking back at him were the bloodshot eyes and haggard face of a frightened youth.

He raised his eyes up and gazed across the river but saw no movement, no sign of life anywhere. After cursing the lifeless land towards the east, he rose to his feet and started back up the bank. Frumgár and Fritha were still asleep where he left them, snoring and wheezing, almost as though they were performing an absurd song.

Could he actually abandon them? No, not today! He would wait and decide later. In the meantime, there had to be changes. He could not allow them to whine and wail and wet their breeches all the way back. "All they want is to be safe and secure and playing their children's games as Mother patiently looks on... A game... I will give them a game to entertain them," he thought sarcastically as he kicked a clod of dirt ahead of him with his foot. With a savage little laugh, he smashed the chunk of dirt to pieces, watching as the dry particles flew out before his foot.

"What sort of game should I give my dear little brothers? Something that would appeal to them. What will it be? Maybe if I made the journey seem like some great adventure... Yes, it will be all a big game... Perhaps that is all life is, a game. The Mark will be the prize! A game for the feeble-minded, and what is there to lose?" He laughed at the absurdity of it, a dull, hollow noise that was not his own.


	5. Knights-Errant

Chapter Written by Angmar

Frumgár awoke, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. Above him, towering like a tall poplar sapling, was his older brother. As he stood with his back to the morning sun, Fródwine stared down from eyes set within hollows, sleep-starved, obscured, dark and foreboding. Frumgár felt uneasy, though he was not sure why.

"Fródwine?" Frumgár asked apprehensively. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing," he growled out.

Frumgár knew that arguing with Fródwine was a risky matter, for his older brother would only become angry if he were provoked. Sitting up, Frumgár glanced into the shadows that enshrouded his brother's eyes. "Have I slept too long?" Fródwine seemed different somehow, and the change which had come over him bothered Frumgár greatly.

"No, it is not time for you to be about yet. Sleep, brother," Fródwine replied tersely. "I have business to attend."

"Can I go with you?" Frumgár asked hesitantly, daring to hope that his brother would allow him to join his adventure.

"No. I will handle this alone."

"When will you be back?"

"I do not know. Do not press me so much." Fródwine's orders were crisp and cutting.

"All right, Fródwine. I did not mean to make you angry. I am sorry." Frumgár hung his head sadly. He heard a twig snap and looked up to see his brother stride away, disappearing into the trees. Yearning desperately for his mother, the younger boy felt very small, very insignificant, and very much alone.

«•»«•»«•»

He simply needed to be away from them for a while. There were too many things on his mind at that moment for him to contend with his little brothers. A fortnight or more of traveling and endless enemies still lay between them and Rohan. Their food would run out long before they ever reached the border, and then how could he hope to keep his little brothers from starving to death? He would watch them sicken and waste away by the day until there was nothing left of them but skin drawn over bones.

If his brothers died... he did not want to think about that... but if they did... Would he be counted responsible? Many would think that he had failed somehow and would place the guilt squarely on his head. But how could they! He had never been the cause of this misfortune! "It is Mother's fault!" a voice in his mind justified. For a while after that, he felt a little more comfortable with himself.

Their mother, while always kind and loving, had changed dramatically, becoming devoid of all practicality. He had seen the transformation in her come about since their father had ridden off to war. There was no point in trying to hide it from himself; she was different. Often he had come upon her when her eyes were red and swollen, and though she tried to deny it when he questioned her, he knew that she had been weeping over his father. Often, her moods had troubled him. Sometimes she seemed exuberant, happy, almost giddy, while at other moments, she would plunge into abysmal bouts of gloom and despair. What worried him the most about her, though, was the expression that sometimes transfigured her face. Her eyes would be blank and vacant, and she would stare into space. He had excused that as sorrow for their father, but sometimes he truly wondered.

Fródwine walked over to the trunk of a white oak and gazed up into the great, spreading branches. In the fork of the tree, silhouetted against the blue sky, was a squirrel's nest, its structure of gray and brown twigs, bark, leaves and moss long abandoned. An ancient graybeard, a frequent visitor of his father, once had told him that some woodsman supplemented their diets when necessary by preparing "forest bread" from ground acorn meal. Harvesting the nuts in autumn, the woodsmen would then dry and peel the nuts. Then after soaking the acorns in water to remove the acidic tannins that the nuts contained, they would grind the fruits into meal. Though not the tastiest of breads, to a hungry stomach, a loaf could seem delicious.

These thoughts of food caused Fródwine's intestines to spasm and growl like a pack of hungry hounds fighting over scraps and bones. He balled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his stomach, feeling the vibrating rumble. His eyes glanced back at the squirrel's nest and then looked up at the faraway blue sky before wandering to the base of another oak. A cache of nuts, stored and forgotten by a squirrel last autumn, had sprouted, and then died, the withered seedlings grasping like spindly fingertips for a sun that had never shone.

When Fródwine had been a little boy - how many years ago was that? - he and his father had taken their bows and quivers and gone hunting for deer, pheasant and grouse. The fresh meat had done much to relieve the monotony of the winter diet of dried peas, lentils and salted beef. The recollection of the bear they once had killed touched his mind comfortingly. He smiled as he remembered sleeping under the warmth of that massive hide on cold winter nights.

In the summer, their mother often called upon the two older boys to help her plant and tend their garden or to search for wild berries and herbs in the woodlands. Then when autumn shared its bounties, they had gathered mushrooms, nuts, wild apples, quince and plums. While he would rather be hunting instead of gardening and gathering, there was some satisfaction in knowing that he had added his part to the family larder.

As he came to the end of the grove which bordered the bank of the River, Fródwine slid his hand down the rough bark of the white oak. The broad plain lay before him and far away beyond that rose Mount Mindolluin and the eastern eaves of the White Mountains. In all that vast expanse from the tree line to the mountains, not a single blade of grass grew. The only signs of new growth were the slimy gray green patches of dried pond scum that had formed in the puddles of water after the rain, and those did little to lessen the starkness of the barren vista.

Sweeping his gaze over the landscape, he tracked the route of the Great West Road. He hesitated to depart from the protection of the trees and leave himself vulnerable to detection by any enemies which might pass along that road. He was relieved when he saw no movement and heard nothing other than the sigh of the wind. Still hesitant, however, he rested a hand against the tree and waited a while longer before venturing farther. Even though there was no sign of any life across that spreading plain, he would feel more comfortable if he had something to use as a weapon. Picking up a large strong branch, he broke it in twain. He balanced the improvised spear in his right hand, thrusting it back and forth as though he were about to hurl it at an enemy. The weight and balance were good, and he was satisfied that should he have to wield it, the point of the stick was capable of penetrating unexposed flesh.

Even if he did venture beyond the trees, what did he hope to accomplish? Was he trying to test his courage, tempting fate, or playing a little boy's game? That was an interesting question, but he was uncertain whether he had the answer or not. Was he subconsciously hoping that the enemy would catch sight of him? Perhaps if a contingent marched down the road, he would call to the soldiers, and then have the satisfaction of making a face at them, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue, and then running as fast as he could. He would tell his brothers about the joke at the expense of the soldiers and they would all laugh about it for days. It was a mad idea, but he did not really believe that a patrol would waste time for only one young boy.

Sighting on the western mountains and grasping the reassuring shaft of his rude spear, Fródwine left the trees and strode briskly onto the barren plain. He glanced back to the place where he had left his brothers and wondered if they were still sleeping. He frowned again when he thought of the two of them panicking, yelling at the tops of their voices, and rushing out to search for him. That was something they did not need. A patrol might consider that while one was not worth chasing, three boys would be a good catch.

His swift pace quickly put a third of a league between himself and the river. Deep in thought, he considered what would be their next course of action. Before he and his brothers had escaped the night before, he had begun devising plans for their return journey. He would lead his brothers across the Great West Road in the darkness of night. They would travel south of the road, moving parallel to it. Although there was always the danger of a patrol coming upon them, this was the only logical route that he could determine. How he wished they could climb over the mountains, but the foreboding rocky faces of their sheer cliffs would present too great a barrier for the younger boys ever to attempt.

As Fródwine observed the summits of the mountains, a glimmer of movement caught his eye. Soon the shape came into focus and he saw a barred peregrine tercel swing out and fly high above the plain. The tercel soared to a great height and then plunged down, his sickle-like wings folded back tightly to his sides. Down, down, he plunged after a gray dove, altering his course as his terrified prey frantically tried to evade him. As the male peregrine drew closer to the dove, his claws thrust forward. The peregrine scored a hit in his prey's left wing and an explosion of torn feathers drifted slowly downward like snowflakes. As the dove dropped towards the earth, the peregrine chased after it, clamping his talons around its bleeding, mangled flesh.

Fródwine felt his heart swelling in his chest as he watched the wonder of the falcon. His eyes followed the peregrine's flight back towards the mountains. There was a certainty inside Fródwine that the male was returning with the prey to his nest, where his mate and fledglings waited for him to return. "Birds still mate and nest, and their fledglings are a proof that nature goes on," Fródwine reflected. Though he exulted at the triumph of the peregrine, still he felt a twinge of envy at the bird's freedom. Tossing the thought aside as one unworthy of a man, he marveled as the bird flew out of sight.

The sun had traveled higher in her orbit, and Fródwine realized that he should soon return to his brothers, but he would journey on a little longer. He had actually accomplished nothing on his scouting expedition, but still he felt better. He had walked but a few steps when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something that he had previously overlooked. There but a short distance away, growing near a grove of cypress in the barren meadow, was another proof that nature was not doomed. A gastronomical wonder which would be heralded with delight on the boards of both king and commoner, a crop of common button mushrooms spread across the ground.

Of course, his brothers would refuse to accept them, pleading that the fungus was not fit for consumption and might even upset their stomachs and loosen their bowels. However, these delicacies could fill his own stomach and provide some nourishment. After gathering all he could in that spot, he moved on, searching for more until he had filled the canvas sack he had slung over his shoulder.

«•»«•»«•»

Fritha, who had been piling small stones on top of each other to form the walls of a castle, was the first to see Fródwine return. With a cry of exclamation, he jumped up, rushed to Fródwine, and wrapped his arms around him.

"Do not make so much noise! You will alert every orc within a league by shouting like that!" Fródwine chided, but Fritha hugged him tighter and buried his face against his brother's stomach.

Fritha wrinkled his face up the way he did when he was about to cry. "Fródwine, I was afraid you were not coming back, but you did! You did!"

"Of course, I was coming back, urchin! I will always return. Now move away and I will show you the delights that I have found," Fródwine replied importantly.

"I hope it is something good!" Taking a step back, the little boy looked up at him with wide, blue eyes.

Fródwine shrugged. "You might not think so."

"Fródwine, what is it? What is it?" Fritha asked eagerly, jumping up and down.

"Mushrooms... Are you sure you want to see them?" Fródwine was wearing that infuriating teasing expression that always made Fritha want to kick his shins or hit him.

"Eww, no!" Backing away, Fritha scowled as Fródwine opened the sack and displayed an unsavory looking collection of mushrooms. "You know I hate those disgusting, nasty things!"

"You were away so long, brother. In all that time, could you not find anything else?" Frumgár asked, his tone disappointed.

"You do not have to eat any of them, Frumgár. No one is forcing you." He paused and looked at his brothers sharply. "And, no, I could not find anything else to eat because there is nothing out there, not even a blade of grass nor a bud on a tree! After I wash them in the river, I will have some of these delectable morsels raw for breakfast." He turned from the boys and strode off down the riverbank, the sack slung over his shoulder.

"I am going, too!" Fritha shouted after him and ran on his short legs to catch up with his brother. Giving a long-suffering sigh of resignation, Frumgár followed behind the pair.

"Stop!" Fródwine hissed in a whisper and halted in his tracks halfway down the bank. "There, across the river!" he gestured with a pointed finger towards the Anduin. There, across the Great River, the boys could see the silvery glint of sun off metal helmets, breastplates and spear points on the other side of the Anduin. "Patrol! Stay where you are and do not move a muscle! Do not even breathe!" With the grim knowledge of the orcs across the Anduin, Fródwine forgot his earlier ideas about doing brash or brave deeds if he ever saw orcs again. "What if they signal some way to their fellows on this side? They will be right on our trails as soon as they see it!" his frantic mind told him.

"I will be quiet, Fródwine," Fritha whispered as clasped his hands over his mouth. "I do not want to see them!"

The three boys stood locked in place, motionless as statues until the patrol had marched by. "Whewww," the sound came as a whistle from Fródwine's pursed lips. "They could have seen us! Wait here a while longer until I give the word. I want to make certain that no more are coming along behind them."

"Fródwine, I am scared!" Fritha whimpered. Never far from tears, he clenched Fródwine's hand for comfort.

At last Fródwine grunted, "No more orcs! As fast as you can, go up the bank and deep into the trees. We are going to lie quiet until nightfall. Remember that there is a long march ahead of us tonight, and we will not be stopping until tomorrow morning. When I was out scouting, I saw a grove of trees. I think we can make it there by dawn and hide in the woods. Go now!"

«•»«•»«•»

When they were once again gathered in the grove at the top of the bank, Fródwine doled out some of the precious rations to the two other boys. The stale bread and dried fruit did little to fill their stomachs, and as they ate it, they looked askance at Fródwine, who plopped one mushroom after another into his mouth. As he chewed the nutty tasting fungus, he smiled as though he had never dined upon anything that had tasted so delicious. "Not that they are very good," he reflected wryly to himself, "but it does no harm to make my brothers think they do."

After they had finished eating, Fródwine wiped his grimy fingers on his breeches leg, strolled over to a tree, and leaned nonchalantly against the trunk. Watching his brothers, Fródwine knew that he never could just abandon them into the hands of the Southron slavers and their lackeys, the orcs. Never before in his almost twelve years had he had such wicked thoughts. He wondered what had possessed him. Searching his soul, he reasoned that it was his own uncertainties about the future and about himself that had thrown his brain into such a turmoil.

The time had come to tell them of "the game." Clearing his throat, Fródwine began to speak. "Attention! We are going to have a moot, and I am going to do the talking for a while. I want the two of you to be quiet."

Humming a tune of his own composition, Fritha finished arranging the stones for his castle. Placing small twigs representing soldiers before the shallow moat that he had dug, he grinned proudly over at Frumgár, who scratched his back against the spine of a crooked poplar.

"Frumgár and Fritha, pay attention!" Fródwine reminded the younger boys. Fritha ignored him and continued giving orders to his toy soldiers. After burping loudly, Frumgár scratched his left ankle with his right foot and paid half-hearted attention to Fródwine. Frowning at both of them, Fródwine resumed. "Right before she left, Mother told me that it might take some time before she would be rejoining us. She did say, though, that she would meet us before we reached the mountains."

Of course, what Fródwine had just said was a lie, but it was a convenient one, told to give his brothers a reason to journey on - the hope of seeing their mother. Fródwine had no such illusions, however, and the idea that she was never coming back had grown in his mind from a suspicion to a certainty. He must persuade Frumgár and Fritha to believe the misconception that they would meet their mother again. If they did not, he was convinced that the two of them would just give up.

"She really said that, Fródwine?" Fritha asked innocently as he looked up from his twig soldiers and into his brother's eyes.

"She certainly did," Fródwine replied smoothly, certain that he sounded convincing. "She said that all of us must be very brave, like Father. She also said that we must have a leader. Since I am the oldest, she wanted me to be the captain of this company."

"Captain?" Frumgár demanded suspiciously. "Since when do you set yourself so high above us? What will you be next? Our king?" He looked up at his brother defiantly.

"That might not be a bad idea," Fródwine grinned impishly.

Frumgár stared at him skeptically. "Rising high rather fast, are you not, brother? Are you trying to replace Théoden, the rightful king?"

"Nay, but I hereby name myself lord of this vassal state under Théoden King. I do not like to boast, but some men are born to lead and others to follow." A haughty expression upon his face, Fródwine took a deep breath and thrust out his chest. "A lord must have a court. Fritha shall be my page."

"Oh, Fródwine, you are just pretending!" Fritha giggled.

"Aye, but do not tell Frumgár that this is a game," Fródwine whispered with a wink. "He takes things so seriously, you know."

"Who am I then?" Frumgár asked peevishly. "The jester?"

"Nay, you have not enough wit for that. Those who are witless are always named Marshals." Before his brother could protest, Fródwine had quickly hurried to his next theme. "Now there must be a throne..." He pointed to a large rock nearby, gray-green with lichens and scored with bird droppings, and then walked over and jumped on top of it. "Kneel before me and I shall knight you."

"Aye, my liege," Frumgár bowed with an exaggerated flourish. "I am ready to swear an oath of fealty to you... but only because Mother wanted it, and not because you did!" He did not like this silly game at all, and was surprised that Fródwine had even thought of it, but it was far easier to go along with him than it was to argue.

"Then come forward so that I may hear your oath."

"I must excuse myself, for I have no sword by which to swear," Frumgár proclaimed. Maybe Fródwine was being serious about their mother's rejoining them later, but it might be just another one of his exaggerations of the truth. However, it never paid to take a chance, because Fródwine had always had the nasty habit of telling on him when Frumgár had been disobedient and surly.

"Swear then on the name of the King and of his family and of his hall and of the people and the country and the horses in his stable and the men of arms at his side!"

"What will it be next, Fródwine? The pots and pans his scullions clean in the kitchen?" Frumgár asked, and he could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice that time.

"Knave, varlet! You are a knight-errant who has strayed too far from truth and honor! No, of course, do not swear upon the pots and pans! Those are not worthy to swear upon!"

"They do belong to the King," Frumgár reminded him, a little too flippantly for Fródwine's taste.

"It is silly to swear by pots and pans," Fritha pointed out. "I am tired of this game."

"Be quiet, Fritha!" Fródwine ordered sternly. "This is serious business! Come forth now, Frumgár, if you will ever come forth, and swear your oath of fealty!"

"You are only pretending, Fródwine. Besides, I want to play with my soldiers," Fritha complained.

"Be quiet and let us get on with it!" Fródwine made a lunge towards the younger boy, which sent Fritha scurrying away in mock terror.

Resigning himself to this game, Frumgár knelt on one knee before his older brother and began to intone in a grandiose style. "Though I have no sword, I, Frumgár son of Fasthelm, swear upon the King, his family, his hall, the people, the country, the men of arms at his side and the horses in his stable. This my vow to you - I will serve you, honor you and respect you as my liege lord and will do all honor to the King above you. I, Frumgár son of Fasthelm, do solemnly swear this oath and may I be struck down dead if ever I disavow it!"

"Then I, Fródwine son of Fasthelm, do accept this your pledge of fealty. I, as your liege lord, promise to protect you, your family and all that you have, both in time of war or time of trouble. May I never enter the halls of the fathers if I do break this oath to you! You may rise, knight!"

"My liege," Frumgár rose to his feet and put his hand over his heart in mock obeisance, "I am honored... truly honored."

"I want to be a knight, too! Let me play! I will swear!" begged Fritha, who had finally decided to enter enthusiastically into the spirit of the game.

"No, Fritha," Fródwine declined in what he thought was a lordly tone of voice, "I already named you my page."

"Fródwine, when can I be a knight?" His innocent blue eyes looked up trustingly at his big brother.

"After you have served as page and then as squire, but that will take you years of training and service. During those years, you will learn hunting, horsemanship, swordsmanship, the arts of combat, and all the skills attendant to the rank of knight. You must also uphold the knightly virtues of cleanliness, comportment, courtesy, generosity, compassion, and loyalty. After you have achieved all that, you will be knighted. Now this session of court is hereby adjourned."

"But, Fródwine, I do not have a horse!" Fritha groaned, a look of disappointment replacing his expression of hopeful expectancy.

Frumgár walked over to his little brother and placed his hand on his shoulder. Looking down into his eyes, he grinned, "Neither do we."

* * *

NOTES

Just as in the book, Théoden was slain at Pelennor Fields by the Witch-king of Angmar, and his nephew Éomer is king of Rohan. However, the boys do not know that. News travels slowly, especially during a war when communication routes are interrupted. In this alternative universe, after Minas Tirith fell, the road north was blocked by the Mordorian forces, and little news reached Rohan.


	6. Blighted Spring

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The orc loomed over her, his hideous face twisted in a leer. Drool and foam frothed from his mouth as he drew back his powerful arm. Elfhild cringed on the ground, flinging her hands up to protect her face and head from the stinging rain of the flail. She screamed as she was struck again and again. "That's for oversleeping, you lazy slut!" the orc laughed cruelly.

She woke up with a start, looking around in confusion, for her tormenter had suddenly disappeared. There was not an orc in sight, or an Easterling or a Southron, or any of the other captives for that matter. There was only the still form of her sister beside her, sleeping peacefully upon her side, her head resting upon the crook of her outstretched arm. They were still in the small grove of trees which they had chosen as a resting place early that morning, far from Osgiliath and the evil Southrons. Elfhild sank back upon the ground with a sigh, almost laughing in relief.

The orc had only been part of her nightmare. They were free!

They had actually done it! They had escaped!

She closed her eyes for a moment and revelled in that small victory, but her joy was short-lived. She knew that they could not stay in one place for long, lest the slavers find them. They must journey on. Each step took them closer to their beloved homeland. What would they find there? What would befall them along the way? Excitement, hope and apprehension all swirled about inside her, as well as a crushing sense of loss when her thoughts returned to the family and friends whom she had left behind.

Gnawing on her bottom lip, Elfhild tried to push all thoughts of sadness into the back of her mind. It would do no good to grieve and worry. Instead, she would think of the future - not the immediate future, which was fraught with uncertainty, but the distant future which still dwelt in dreams and fantasies. Yes, that was the key, she thought resolutely. Her hopes would sustain her through the dark days to come. They would be like the strongest shirt of mail and sturdiest shield, for despair was an enemy far greater than any orc or man.

Ah, but enough of such serious ponderings. Now to rouse her sister. After pushing herself into a sitting position, she laid her hand upon the other girl's shoulder. "Elffled, wake up," she exclaimed cheerfully.

Elffled opened her eyes and blearily looked up at Elfhild, blinking from the intense light which flooded her vision. "What on earth could she want," she wondered, mumbling her displeasure at being awakened.

"'Tis our first day of freedom!" Elfhild explained, smiling at her sleepy sister. "Rise and enjoy this beautiful morning!"

"Aye, and I have traded one slave-driver for another, and a mad one at that," Elffled muttered crossly as she sat up. Such good cheer was not appreciated when one had been awakened unnecessarily from restful slumber and pleasant dreams. Both were hard to come by in such days.

"I am no slave-driver!" Elfhild protested defensively. "You are so surly in the mornings! If I were a real slave-driver, I would lay the lash upon your back! You certainly deserve it!" Laughing, she mussed her sister's tangled hair, making sure to dodge the retaliatory slaps of Elffled's hand.

"Damn her," Elffled thought, in no mood to put up with her sister's foolishness. Why was she so accursedly happy? Here they were, in the middle of nowhere, far from their aunt and cousin. What good had come from this ill-conceived escape attempt? By fleeing from the foe, they had deserted the only family they had left. Oh, how Elffled hated Goldwyn! She had done far more harm than the slavers ever had. The men of the South and East, though they were all savage barbarians, at least would have allowed the captives to stay together until the end of the journey. Now the great tragedy which loomed in the future like the clouds of a fell storm had come to pass prematurely, and what little time that Elffled had with her family and friends had been squandered. And for what? Naught but a foolish hope.

Never had she expected that Goldwyn's silly plan would actually be successful. She had counted on the vigilant guards to save her from the stupidity of the other captives, but the worthless Haradrim had failed her! Though it was absurd and made no sense at all, she felt just as angry at the Southrons as she did at Goldwyn. Now there was no going back. Or was there? If she and her sister surrendered to the slavers, would they be tortured for having tried to escape, or would they be rewarded for returning? Elffled did not know. Perhaps she was an evil traitor for even thinking such thoughts, but she could not help it! She was just a selfish girl whose only wish was to be back with her aunt.

Feeling utterly wretched, Elffled heaved out a sigh. Truly they had escaped, and she hated every moment of that so-called triumph. Oh, how she missed Leofgifu and Hunig, and all of her other relations, friends and acquaintances! Even when she dwelt back in the Mark, she had seldom been more than a mile away from her family for any length of time. Her heart felt as though it were breaking and it was a challenge to keep the tears at bay. Was not her sister even the slightest bit sad, or had Goldwyn's impassioned speech driven her little brain out of her skull? Oh, how she hoped this madness would pass, and pass soon!

**•·•·•**

The late morning sun shone down through the aborted leaflets which clung forlornly to the boughs of the trees, offering little shade below. Though it was the middle of June and the woods should have been filled with bright green foliage, to the trees the season was yet winter. Some would never see another summer again, for they now stood as still and solemn as stone memorials, and just as lifeless. It was a demented forest, hungry for light and rain after being buried alive in a grave of darkness.

Spring had come, but it had been blighted, and delicate buds had developed over time into elongated spurs, wan and sickly of color. The pale, bony fingers of the branches stretched out like hands, skeleton trees barely clinging to life. Since the war had broken out in the spring, the trees had fought their own battle against the billows of smoke and fumes which assailed them from the East. Tiny, silent mouths screamed for water and only choked upon the filth which filled the air and coated deformed leaves in a film of suffocating grime. In this dreadful morass of sulfur and brimstone, the trees floundered in pain and anguish like blind men cast into a sea of poison.

At last, the rain had come and the clouds of Mordor had been driven back across the Mountains of Shadow, but it still would be some time ere the woods of Gondor and Rohan would fully recover. The spring in the West had been disrupted and utterly destroyed - just like another Spring long ago beyond the distant reaches of time.

The sisters breakfasted beneath the ailing trees. The continuing theme of Elfhild's conversation was the daring escape, of which she spoke about with great enthusiasm, much to her sister's annoyance. Oh, how Elffled wished she could just get her gratingly cheerful voice to be still for a moment! Everything seemed so surreal, like some half-remembered recollection from a fever dream conjured up during a night of restless sleep. Elffled's mind struggled to comprehend all that had happened since last night, but it was as though a thousand ages had passed since then, and they were trapped in some madman's nightmare. "Or woman's," Elffled reflected spitefully, thinking of Goldwyn.

"Truly we are fortunate," Elfhild reminded her, the words seeming to mock Elffled, even though they contained no malice. "No more orders, no more leering faces, and not one Southron and Easterling in sight! I do not think that I shall miss them at all." Laughing, she added, "I can barely believe that we escaped! It seems so strange... I have to keep pinching my arm to remind myself that this is not all just a wishful dream."

"And now that we are free," Elffled inquired, turning a steely gaze upon her sister, "what do we do now?"

Elfhild stared at her for a moment in total disbelief. "Do? What do you expect us to do? Why, we will walk until our feet ache too much to carry us," she replied haughtily, stepping into her role as self-appointed leader. "Then we shall rest and walk some more. It is a two-day journey back to Minas Tirith and the Great West Road, but we must not go towards the city! I think our best course would be to head due west until we come to the road. If our luck holds up, we shall reach it tomorrow night or the next night. Then we will follow its path at a distance, so as not to be detected by any patrols. That way, we will be far north of the Mundburg and the vast numbers of enemies there. The road is the only sure landmark of which I am familiar, and I do not want to get us hopelessly lost."

"Do you realize that it will take us almost a month to get back to where our village once stood?" Elffled asked, putting her hands on her hips. "And we have little food... and no weapons... and we shall be walking through territory now held by our enemies... Does not the realization yet dawn upon you that most people would think our plight hopeless?" She clamped her mouth shut. Oh, who ever listened to her anyway?

"I prefer to worry about only one day at a time," Elfhild remarked, brushing aside all of her sister's concerns with a meaningless phrase meant to be encouraging. "We shall contemplate that when we cross the Mering Stream and our feet tread across the blessed fields of the Eastfold."

Elffled shrugged, not wishing to press the matter. It would only make her feel even more woeful. This foolish escape attempt had been talked about incessantly, and she was sick to death of hearing great, heroic speeches. If she heard another one, she would surely scream!

"Since we are through eating, I will put the food away," Elfhild sighed gloomily. She was still hungry, but she would not eat any more. That was another worry which troubled her mind, much more than she let on. How would they obtain more food when their supply ran out? There would not be anything growing for quite some time. "Maybe a few people yet remain in Anórien," she reflected hopefully. "Surely the orcs did not destroy every village and capture every man, woman and child! If a village was located at a goodly distance from the road, then surely it would remain untouched... I only hope that there are a few people left to help us, and not all have fled into the mountains!"

As Elfhild returned the remnant of bread to her cloak, Elffled looked to the territory beyond the little grove. Stretching far to the north, south and west were barren fields and the brown blotches of even more leafless trees. Here, far from the other captives, Elffled felt keenly aware of the desolation which spread for miles and miles, the sense of total isolation, as though she and her sister were the sole survivors of some horrible calamity.

"I wonder if the land will ever heal from the darkness," she sighed, just to distract herself from the feeling of uttermost emptiness.

"At least the sun has returned." Elfhild's eyes darted up towards the golden orb in the sky. "Sun and rain are what we need now."

Elffled nodded in agreement, but the land was not the only thing that had changed. Even if time restored the Mark to its former glory, still it would never seem like home. All that they had known was gone; their village destroyed; their mother dead; their friends and relatives taken into captivity. What made home a home – the land itself, or the people who dwelt there? Though Grenefeld had been sacked, Elffled felt as though the whole village had traveled with them. Family, friends and neighbors had suffered together on every step of the eastward journey, each woman sharing the fears and sorrows of all the others. Sometimes she had imagined them all as a clan of wandering herdsmen from the northern regions of Rohan, though they were not wanderers by choice.

But now Elffled and her sister were all alone. Oh, how she missed her aunt and cousin! What joy was there in returning to Rohan if their beloved kinswomen were not with them? Now they were sundered forever! She almost wished that her aunt had reconsidered her decision to stay behind and had accompanied them on their flight. She felt so lost, so frightened, so desperate.

Sensing her sister's unease, Elfhild asked gently, "What is wrong? You seem troubled... I know you are worried about the future, but we cannot fall prey to despair, lest we become so sorrowful that we just give up."

"Oh, I was just thinking about Aunt Leofgifu and Hunig... I wonder if they decided to escape." Elffled's fingers absently trailed along the ground, pensively tracing over the rough texture of a small stone.

"Last night everything happened so fast... I – I could not be certain what transpired after we said our farewells." Elfhild shook her head sadly. "Leofgifu was quite adamant about not going, but perhaps she changed her mind. Maybe they are making their way west, even as we now speak. Maybe we shall meet them along the way, and they will travel with us."

"That would be good," Elffled sighed, her words empty and hollow. Everything that could be said had been said, and she was tired of talking anyway. She sank into an uncomfortable silence. She missed her aunt and cousin so much that it felt as though they had died and now she was grieving. Oh, how soon would it be ere Elfhild came to her senses and realized that they were doomed out here all by themselves? And how soon would it be ere the two of them were recaptured?

**•·•·•**

The two sisters walked on in silence beneath the canopy of stretching limbs. The sun filtered down through the boughs, making patterns of light and shadow upon the ground. The morning was a hot one, but the breeze felt refreshing and pleasant as it stirred their hair and gently pushed at their skirts. To their side, the Great River rolled on, ever flowing towards the Sea as it had for thousands of years.

Soon they had left the grove behind them and set their course upon a meandering path which led them beside a wide meadow. The ground was covered with tufts of dead grass which had sprouted up in the spring but soon wavered and perished from drought. Where the ground was rougher, daisies and other blossoms should have been blooming, but the land was barren, still healing from the Dark Lord's ruin.

Elfhild wondered if a farmer had lived there and if his daughters had once played in the field, weaving chains of flowers to wear as circlets and necklaces. That thought brought a smile to her face, but the expression soon faded. Far, far towards the west, she thought she saw tiny shapes moving.

"Elffled, I think I see something in the distance!" A small stream had its course a little ways north of the meadow, and upon its banks there rose up a line of trees and bushes. Pointing towards the thicket, Elfhild ordered, "Quick, climb one of the trees! You climb far better than I. See if you can see any enemies towards the west!"

The twins sprinted across the path and towards the stream, taking cover within the thicket. Soon Elffled had located the tallest tree she could find, a large plane tree which dug its thick roots deep beneath the bed of the watercourse. Grasping the first stout branch which was within her reach, she carefully scaled up the wide bole and soon rested high above the ground in the crotch of two massive limbs.

"Do you see anything?" Elfhild's hushed voice demanded.

"Unfortunately, yes," Elffled replied, looking down at her sister. "Men on horses... others on foot... maybe orcs. They appear to be heading northward."

"Oh, no!" Elfhild exclaimed fearfully, gnawing on her fingernails. "They will be scouring the land for those who escaped! We cannot go west, but we cannot stay here! We have to keep moving, lest we are found!"

Panic rose in Elffled's voice. "What do we do then?"

"I am afraid we will have to go back the way we came," Elfhild sighed, slumping against the tree in defeat. "Since we cannot go west, we must follow the Anduin for a while. As far as I can tell, this stretch of it runs a straight course from north to south, almost identical to the path of the Great West Road. The river will not lead us wrong! We can use it as a guide, and then when the danger has passed, we head west again. Hopefully by tomorrow morning, the search parties will have gone elsewhere, and we can resume our journey."


	7. The Aftermath of the Storm

Chapter Written by Angmar

"Master! Two riders ahead!" The broad-faced, sallow-skinned part-orc gestured with his hand. The physician's attention was drawn to two barely discernible figures moving towards them through the fog of early dawn.

The physician narrowed his eyes and squinted into the trees that sheltered the ruins of Osgiliath. "Fûshfra, I can see them, but not so well as you."

"Master, can you not see Shakh Esarhaddon's chestnut mare and Shakh Ganbar's roan gelding?" The superior tone of the part-orc's voice did nothing to conceal his scorn for the limitations of the Khandian.

"Aye, even I can tell that they are horses!" the doctor replied irritably.

With a shout of "Hail!" the horsemen cantered up to the small group and halted their horses a short distance away. Accepting the extended obeisances of his servants with a perfunctory nod, the slave master was quickly off his horse. Giving his mount's reins to Ganbar, who led the animal aside, Esarhaddon strode over to the stretcher which held Goldwyn. Frowning in consternation, Esarhaddon looked down at the still form of his new favorite and then turned to the part-orc.

"Fûshfra, what have you and your louts done to her? If any serious harm has befallen this slave, you and your devils will soon have to squat down to piss because I will order your stinking, foul members cut off and shoved up your hairy arses!" Though his tawny face was suffused with an angry, ruddy flush, Esarhaddon's voice was calm and deadly cold.

Terrified of the slaver when he was in a rage, the mixed breed orc crawled on his knees to the man and groveled at his feet. Lifting up Esarhaddon's foot, the uruk placed the boot sole on his head, showing his total submission to the slaver. "Master, none of us has laid so much as a finger on the woman! Just ask the physician! He will vouch that I am telling the truth!"

Esarhaddon turned to the physician. "Tushratta, is this true?"

He nodded. "Fûshfra is not lying."

His questioning of Fûshfra not completed, Esarhaddon went on, his foot keeping a light pressure upon the uruk's bowed head. "What took you so long to find her?"

"The woman is clever, Master!" the frightened part-uruk whined. "When she bolted and ran, she took us by surprise. She is as swift as a deer and quickly outdistanced us. Her scent was mixed in with that of other escapees, and we had quite a time sorting hers out from the rest. We almost had her after that, but she evaded us yet again by wading into a stream where we lost her scent in the water. She traveled down the stream for a long distance, but we eventually picked up her trail again." Knowing that the slaver had the power of life and death over him, Fûshfra was terrified. He was sweating heavily, his body reeking with the stench of his fear.

"And her sons? Obviously, you lost them, too!"

"There weren't enough of us to look for both the woman and her sons. Since a choice had to be made, I assumed that you would rather we searched for the woman." By the sweaty balls of the Black Master, would this man crush his skull?

"Fool! I wanted them all!" Jerking his foot from the sniveling Fûshfra's head, Esarhaddon pivoted and turned to a gaping part-orc nearby. "When we return to camp, you will see that Fûshfra receives one hundred lashes for his impertinence and his gross incompetence, and he should be grateful for each stroke!"

"Thank you, Master, thank you! Your mercy is without end!" Bowing his head up and down, Fûshfra crawled backwards away from the slaver until he thought it was safe to rise.

Esarhaddon turned back to the still unmoving woman upon the stretcher. Reaching down, he touched her pallid face. Then looking questioningly at Tushratta, the slaver spoke in a calmer voice.

"Physician, suppose you tell me what happened."

"My lord, as Fûshfra has related, the woman was difficult to track, losing us upon several occasions," Tushratta replied. "As we drew near to a ruined tomb on the northeast of the city, we heard screams. When we ventured inside the vault, we found her as you see her now. The orcs searched the crypt, and there was no evidence that her sons had followed her. There were no visible marks on her body, save a few scrapes and bruises, probably incurred during her flight. I did not discover any broken bones or head injuries upon first examination," the physician explained with a detached, unemotional formality.

"Then how do you account for her condition?" Esarhaddon demanded, scowling. "She has a strange, sickly pallor, and her skin has the coolness of a person who is close to death!"

A concerned furrow between his brows, Tushratta shook his head. "My lord, I have already explained to you that there seems to be nothing physically wrong with her. From all indications, she appears simply to have fallen into a deep slumber." The physician glanced down at the woman, who was breathing slowly and rhythmically. "I do not feel that it is beneficial for her to stay out here in the chill of early morning. With your permission, Shakh, we will take her back to the camp."

"By all means, she should be moved to a more comfortable location!" the slaver affirmed. "I cannot tarry long, but I will walk with you a while. Tell me everything that you observed when you reached the tomb." With a command from Tushratta, the small procession shuffled into step and set off towards the camp, the slaver on one side of the stretcher and the physician on the other. "Possibly you have some theories that would explain what we see here. When you came upon the woman in the tomb, was she like this?"

The physician's mind went back to the bizarre scene which had met him in the tomb. He had reservations about telling the slaver of the woman's condition when he had found her - her skirt bunched up around her waist, her thighs spread wide apart. Esarhaddon would never understand, and would be convinced that the woman had been pleasuring herself in the house of the dead, an act so base and depraved that it would carry the penalty of a severe flogging in the South. Tushratta did not think that Goldwyn could survive such a brutal beating, and so he tempered his reply.

"When we found her she was lying upon the floor of the crypt, her arms outstretched," Tushratta told the slaver, revealing only a part of the truth. "She seemed to be reaching out for some unseen presence, but whether she did this to embrace it or drive it away, I know not which. She cried and moaned in her own language, and then fell back unconscious. It was as though she had seen something so terrible that the horror of it caused her to swoon."

"My good physician, I feel that you are letting your imagination make more of this than there is," the slaver laughed derisively. "When the woman was with me in my tent, it was obvious that she was of a nervous temperament. Such females are given to outbursts of intense emotion over the slightest of things. This type of woman is difficult to manage, but often they make the best of all lovers. What you witnessed was probably no more than a fit brought on by hysteria."

"Perhaps you are correct, Shakh, and her affliction is nothing more than nervous exhaustion." Tushratta shook his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. "However, in all my years of experience as a physician from here to the Land of the Two Rivers, I have observed only one other case that even remotely resembles hers! That situation, too, was equally baffling."

"What was it?" the slaver prodded, eager for the physician to get to the point.

Nervously, Tushratta cleared his throat. "My lord, if I should give you an account of that other matter, you would only be offended. You will dismiss it all as nothing but ignorant superstition, much as you are wont to dismiss other such matters."

"Whether I become angry or not, I suggest you explain to me the situation to which you refer," Esarhaddon demanded impatiently.

"Aye, Shakh, if you would hear of the matter involving that which I speak..." Tushratta paused, hesitating. He eyed the other man questioningly.

"I already told you that, Tushratta. Speak on!"

Pursing his lips in thought, a pensive expression on his face, Tushratta looked away from Goldwyn and into the face of the slaver. "When I was still a student in the Great City of the East, Bablon, that jewel of a city..."

Esarhaddon had heard the physician's glowing accounts of his native land many times before, and the topic always wearied him. Frowning, he cut the physician short with a curt interjection. "I know you take great pride in being a Khandian."

"Aye, and not without justification," the doctor remarked dryly.

"Get on with the story, damn it!" Esarhaddon had almost run out of patience.

Tushratta allowed a small smile to creep over his face. "The physician under whom I studied was a highly skilled surgeon whose reputation was known far and wide. In addition to his mastery of medicine, he was also a great healer of the woes of the spirit, a shaman - or, as they are called in my language, an _ashipu_." He thought back to his days as a student at the great bimaristan of Bablon, and of the long, difficult years of study under the great masters. The Haradric slaver, though, was not a man of science or metaphysics. An ignorant man, the physician thought derisively, but least he paid well.

"In this great school of learning, there were many other talented physicians, who sought to learn all the skills and arts of healing," Tushratta continued, but he was not certain if Esarhaddon was still listening. "Patients with illnesses of all kinds, both of the mind and the body, were gladly admitted to the bimaristan. The majority of the diseases were those commonly known - fevers; sleeping disorders; palsy; leprosy; tumors; blindness; the wasting disease; and many others. No one was turned away, not even those who suffered from the 'love diseases,' the poxes that eat at the privy parts - and in that city, unfortunately - or fortunately, depending on how one sees it - there are many brothels."

"Aye, I know the pride you people take in your famous houses of pleasure," Esarhaddon muttered irritably. "The people of Khand delight in praising their temples of fleshly delight almost as much as they do in extolling the wonders of the ziggurats. But we are discussing neither at this time." He glanced down at the woman on the stretcher and thought that her color might be a little better.

Deep in thought and paying little heed to the slaver, the physician ran his tongue over his lower lip and absentmindedly tapped his finger to his chin as he walked along beside the stretcher. "Sicknesses of the mind, heart and soul could often be assuaged, and occasionally even cured - or, at least, lessened by the salubrious usage of various potions and narcotics..."

"I am aware of all these things!" His patience at an end and thoroughly tired of the subject, the slave master's voice rose crossly.

"I beg your indulgence, my lord," the physician replied quietly. "I reiterate these things merely to show you the nature and diversity of the ailments that were treated and the variety of methods that were employed in deriving their cure. Even though most of the cases were quite routine, there were sometimes unusual cases which were brought to the master physician's attention - for he was indeed an ashipu of considerable power and repute. For these particular diseases, he would call upon the aid of the gods and goddesses and make sacrifices in their names to heal the afflicted. Sometimes the Powerful Ones took pity, while at other times, they did not deign to do so. Who can know the minds of deities!" Tushratta shrugged his shoulders.

"Physician, I thought you were going to tell me about some unusual experience that reminded you of the lady's illness." Esarhaddon, his mouth a tight, thin line, his expression one of resentful long-suffering, rhythmically thumped his riding crop against his thigh as they walked along.

"Yes, my lord, I was just getting around to that." The physician smiled. "I can remember it as though it were only yesterday." His eyes took on a dreamlike quality as he pictured the scene in his mind. "Near dawn one morning, the people heard the great alarm gongs being struck in the towers, and then the warning trumpets were sounded. There was a great tumult along the riverbank. People seemed devoid of their senses, running to and fro or hiding in their houses. Many thought that the city had been attacked, or some great natural calamity was about to befall us. Many even feared that the dread Day of Doom that would signal the Last Battle Between Good and Evil was upon us.

"By the Gods in their palaces of pleasure," Esarhaddon thought, "I think I have heard this story before!"

"Of course, it was nothing at all like that," Tushratta chuckled. "For most of the night, a group of fishermen had cast their nets unsuccessfully. When it was near dawn, they were so disheartened that they were about to give up, but they decided to cast their nets one more time. Almost as soon the weighted net sank into the water, the fishermen felt a great tug and rejoiced that finally their efforts had been met with success. With great joy and strong resolve, all of the men set their muscles to the task and strained to draw up the hoard of fish. Though they hauled and tugged with all their might, the net would not budge!" Tushratta paused. Even the uruks were listening to his tale!

The physician cleared his throat. "Their captain - a great, brawny man of unsurpassed courage and strength, whose thick arms were veritable timbers of bulging muscles - put his own shoulder to the task. Exhorting his men to the greatest of exertion, he reminded them that enough profit would be made off this one vast load of fish to feed their families for many days to come." Tushratta's voice became more excited. "The men lay into the work with greater zeal than even before, and as they drew up the net from the water, they began to sing. However, the song soon stilled in their throats," he added for dramatic emphasis. "As the net broke free from the surface, up with it came a great seething and a foment of the current. Then with a mighty churning and foaming, the water swirled and rose into a waterspout which spun, boiling over the sides of the ships like the tide and threatened to submerge the two rivercraft.

"Chaos broke out among the fishermen, for none among them, not even the eldest, had ever seen such a storm upon the river. Some became so terrified that they lost their senses. Plunging over the sides of the ships, they attempted to swim to shore. Ere any of them ever neared the farther bank, the water boiled up about them and swept them screaming down into the depths of the river." A look of sadness came over the physician's face, as he thought of that terrifying morning so long ago.

"The weight in the net was so heavy that the cording was stretched taut between the ships. Some on the shore swore later that they saw some huge form struggling in the net and heaving itself up out of the water in an enraged fury. As the men worked to save the ship, a fierce wind sprang up, buffeting the waters until they formed great waves which lashed against the sides of the ships. The maelstrom became so violent that it turned the water into angry billows which slammed against the ships which were moored at the dock, dousing onlookers who pressed too close." The physician paused, hearing in his mind once again the screams.

"Then from the heavy black clouds that lay from horizon to horizon, the lightning raked down from the clouds as the squall roared and snarled. In the brightness caused by the bursts of lightning, many swore they could see a great, white shape in the midst of the water. The monster had long, streaming hair that blew wildly about its head. Savage, gleaming eyes it had, which shot out white sparks. The phantasmagoric being thrashed in the water, spitting and hissing like some great serpent. Its long, gnarled claws grasped the nets at the sides of the ships and dragged the vessels down with it into the heart of the river." Tushratta fell silent, looking down at the woman.

"And the point of all this, Physician - other than to prove once again that the Khandians spend far too much of their time indulging in the delights of sauma, kapurdri, poppies, harmal and kannabis, and the other drugs and potions which they love so well - is what?" Esarhaddon asked dryly.

"If you will bear with me, Shakh-" the physician exhaled in a long sigh.

"Tushratta, I believe I have been listening patiently for quite some time. I am baffled, though, as exactly what all this has to do with the slave woman."

"Aye, Shakh, you have been most gracious in hearing me out, and I will soon conclude my tale," the physician replied apologetically. "When I have finished, perhaps you shall see the parallel between the two situations. All the fishermen perished either when the ship sank beneath them, or when they tried to swim across the river. The only one who survived was the captain, and his grief was too much to be borne. Besides losing all his crew, he also lost six of his sons, two of his brothers, and many other kinsmen." Tushratta shook his head sadly.

"Before this strange happening, he had been a stalwart, robust man who was only in his mid-years. His beard had hung down his chest and was thick, black and curly. When he was pulled naked and senseless from the river, his hair was as white as a grandfather's, his face was wrinkled as a man twice his age, and he was howling like a dog struck with madness. He soon succumbed into a stupor and lay for days, pale-faced, his skin dry and cold to the touch, almost like ash."

"And what was offered as the cause of this calamity?" The slaver was certain now that he had heard this same story at least once before, but he was not about to admit it.

Knowing the cold skepticism with which his words would be viewed, Tushratta inhaled deeply and then let his breath escape in a resigned sigh. "Many of the witnesses swear the source of the evil was a river djinn."

Esarhaddon snorted, his nose wrinkling in revision. "Are you trying to say that this woman has seen a djinn? Damn it, man, if this matter were not so grievous, I would think your idea was accursedly humorous! However, I am in no mood for levity. The woman has grown to be of some importance to me."

"I say nothing, shakh. I judge nothing. I merely tell you of a similar occurrence, which, quite possibly, has nothing whatsoever in common with whatever befell her." The physician's eyes did not waver as they met those of Esarhaddon.

"Surely you do not expect me to believe such a far-fetched tale as you have just told. Whatever happened must have an explanation that holds true to natural law. But a djinn!" Esarhaddon exclaimed skeptically. "By the golden globes of Ninanna's perfect tits! You cannot be serious!" He wished he had not left the wineskin on his horse's saddle. A drink might make this story more bearable.

Flushing slightly, Tushratta cleared his throat and blandly droned on. "Aye, certainly, there was a very natural explanation for the capsizing of the ships, offered by men of scientific bent. A sudden storm was driven inland from the coast and swept up the river. The learned men of science maintain that this phenomenon, and no other, was the true cause for the sinking of the ships." He smiled, knowing that the slaver would approve of the logical explanation.

"But here is where the parallel may be drawn between the unfortunate end of the ship's captain and this woman," Tushratta announced, his voice taking on that dry, professional quality which always bored the slaver to frustration. "During the long night, the captain had drunk himself almost to oblivion, and so when the storm came up, he was lying senseless on the deck. The physicians at the bimaristan theorize that after he sobered up and his wits returned to him, the captain was driven mad by the accumulation of the malignancy of his thoughts. Just as you maintain, the best scholars and natural philosophers give no credence to the existence of evil djinns."

"That was a long, roundabout and rather redundant way of explaining that you think that the slave woman was driven mad by something she saw in the tomb," Esarhaddon muttered in disgust.

"Not necessarily something which she saw, Shakh, but more probably what she thought she saw." The physician thoughtfully tapped his finger on his bearded chin. "Here is my explanation. Since her sons were not with her when she was found, either they were separated, or, more likely, she sent them away. For a mother to part willingly with her sons would be a great strain upon her mind and heart. Perhaps the total realization of what she had done dawned fully upon her while she was in the tomb. Possibly the combination of that frightening place and her guilt has upset her emotions to the extent that she cannot face reality for the present."

"Then suppose that you are correct, physician. What do you propose as the cure to her illness?" Esarhaddon asked skeptically.

"As you know, my lord, I am only a surgeon and physician. My skills lie in the administering of medicines, the applying of compresses and the treating of wounds, not the maladies that claim the soul," Tushratta returned humbly. "If you believe in such things, you should consult a shaman, an ashipu, to appeal to the gods on her behalf."

"Damn it, Tushratta! How often do I have to reiterate that I do not believe in magic, soothsayers, fortune tellers, sorcerers, and all their assorted rubbish! It is all superstition substituting for religion in the minds of the ignorant! I am not about to spend good money to consult a damnable shaman!" Esarhaddon growled, angrily slapping the riding crop against his thigh. He winced slightly as he felt the leather sting his leg. "Treat her with what means and methods as you have available at your disposal and spare me the burden of chanting and wailing magicians! This incessant mention of the occult is wearying, and I have many serious concerns upon my mind. Take the woman back to the camp and examine her more thoroughly in your tent! Treat her for any injuries that you may find upon her and do not tax her mind with mentions of demons and djinns!"

"Aye, Shakh. I will do all that I can for her." Tushratta paused and then added, "Perhaps it was amiss of me not to inquire as to whether any of the other runaways have been found, but my mind was occupied with concerns for the woman. How goes the hunt?"

"Not so well, physician, I regret to say," Esarhaddon replied sadly. "Certainly most of the women and children were caught soon after they attempted to escape, but others were as fleet as gazelle. According to the reports which I received, there were still fifteen or twenty left uncaught. And then those three foolish wenches who plunged into the Anduin! We do not know whether they survived or not. I have sent men to search for them down river. Perhaps they all drowned; perhaps we will never know. Part of the risks we accept in this business." The slaver shrugged.

"Shakh, hold a moment while I see to the lady's pulse." The physician signaled to the stretcher bearers to halt. "Perhaps a little steadier." Nervously, he moistened his lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

"She is in your care, physician, and I trust you to find a cure for her malady." Esarhaddon had decided that it was useless for him to listen to any more of the physician's tedious dialogues. "I will rely upon your advice in her treatment, for while we do not always agree on everything, I trust your abilities as a surgeon and your honor as a man."

"Will you be going back with us to the camp?"

"No, not for the meantime in any event. Master Ganbar and I will be riding upriver to search for any escapees who may be hiding in this vicinity. If there is nothing else to discuss, we will be leaving you." Esarhaddon signaled to Ganbar, his second-in-command, who quickly brought up both his master's mount and his own.

"Shakh, I will consult my parchments and scrolls. Possibly some of the ancient books can direct light on ailments of this type." The physician looked away, cautious of the reaction that his next words might have. "Why do I always have to be so differential?" he wondered. "Does the profession of physician lend itself to the guise of humility? At times I am no better than the most dependent of sycophants! Might as well be out with my advice, whether he likes it or not!" Clearing his throat, he added, "If I feel that a shaman should be called in for consultation, I will recommend one. If at all possible, I will find a reputable shaman - not a fraud like that old fool in Turkûrzgoi!"

The slaver stared at his physician. "Your quest will be in vain, for none exist. All are charlatans, deceivers of the gullible, and unscrupulous purveyors of worthless amulets, trinkets and potions!"

The physician grinned wryly. "Shakh, that is not always true, for in Bablon, they say-"

"They say a lot of things in Bablon! Damn Bablon anyway! No good has ever come from there!" Giving the physician a look of utter disgust, Esarhaddon mounted his horse, touched his heels to her flanks, and rode away at a fast clip, Ganbar hard pressed to keep up with him.

* * *

NOTES

Yes, the ancient city of Babylon was in Middle-earth, which is, of course, not at all surprising, since Middle-earth is our real world, set in an alternative fantasy pre-history.

"Glory dwelt in that city of Gondolin of the Seven Names, and its ruin was the most dread of all the sacks of cities upon the face of the Earth. Nor Bablon, nor Ninwi, nor the towers of Trui, nor all the many takings of Rûm that is greatest among men, saw such terror as fell that day upon Amon Gwareth in the kindred of the Gnomes; and this is esteemed to be the worst work that Melko has yet thought of in the world."  
-_The Book of Lost Tales II_, "The Fall of Gondolin," p. 196-197; see also note on page 203.


	8. The Barbarians

Chapter Written by Angmar

When Tushratta and the party of orcs returned to the slaver's camp that morning, there was a large crowd of prisoners waiting outside the physician's tent. Vigilant guards stood nearby in case the prisoners attempted to escape again. His brow furrowed in concern, Tushratta led the uruks bearing Goldwyn's stretcher through the frightened crowd of women and children.

Rushing up to meet them was the physician's assistant, Aziru, who showed his respect to his superior by a series of quick bows from the waist and a broadly grinning face. A sheen of perspiration on his forehead and balding pate, the small man repeatedly mopped his brow with an embroidered linen handkerchief. Bushy black eyebrows crowned a pair of bright brown eyes which looked out over a bulbous, protruding nose. A thick, wiry mustache flecked with a few traces of gray added dignity to his otherwise bland face. Another Khandian like Tushratta, the middle-aged man was small of stature, his agitated state infusing his tawny skin with a ruddy glow.

"Master Physician," Aziru exclaimed excitedly in Khandian, "it has been like this for hours! Pure confusion and chaos! Behold the look on the women's faces! Pure contempt!"

"How many have you treated so far, Aziru?"

"Very few, Master Tushratta! Most would not let me touch them, and when the orcs brought them into the tent for treatment, only a few women would allow their children to be examined. In those cases, I think it was only because the mothers were desperate, for their children had suffered serious wounds."

"Why did they have such an extreme reaction?" Tushratta asked in bewilderment as his thoughtful, deep brown eyes flicked over the crowd and saw faces which were sullen, scornful, some even hostile.

"By the gods, these Northern people are superstitious! Convinced that I am a sorcerer, the women called me an accursed heathen barbarian whose hands are dipped in the blood of innocents! They said I would take their children and replace them with the spawn of monsters, and then cast all sorts of wicked spells upon them!" Aziru again mopped his damp forehead with his linen handkerchief. Concluding that the cloth was saturated with his sweat, Aziru called for a small slave boy to fetch him a clean one.

"Ignorance is one of the many curses which plague the earth," the physician muttered under his breath. "By the orders of our employer, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya, we must tend to this woman before we can see to the care of the others. I suspect that she is far more important to him than the rest of the whole lot put together." Turning to Fûshfra and his four men, Tushratta ordered in Black Speech, "Take the woman inside, and then go and make yourself useful someplace else. My assistant and I can handle matters here."

"Aye, Shakh. The lads will treat her as though she were made out of glass," the half-breed grunted out his assurance.

Peering down to the woman on the stretcher, Aziru commented, "This woman appears to be close to death! What has befallen this lady to vex her so grievously?"

"Aziru, I will discuss her circumstances later," Tushratta replied impersonally. "Now help Fûshfra and his lads get the woman on the examining table."

"Yes, Master Physician, yes." The small man quickly moved aside to hold the tent curtain open. Silently the physician watched as his assistant directed the orcs in sliding the woman onto the table. Barely waiting until they had departed from the tent, Aziru pinched his nostrils closed with his thumb and forefinger and unleashed a string of invectives in Khandian. "By the snot-encrusted nose of the Magician in the Dark Tower, the stinking sewers of Bablon smell like attar of roses in comparison with these foul beasts!"

"They are gone and none of our concern at present. Now you will attend me in examining this woman." Unwilling to get into an irrelevant discussion, Tushratta shrugged off his assistant's comments.

"Doctor, never have I seen a woman with a face so beautiful!" Aziru exclaimed. "These golden haired Northern women are truly exquisite treasures, their like not seen in our land! Now if her body compares with her lovely features and hair, I will swear she is the Goddess Herself descended from the heavens!" His eyes glittered as they roamed from Goldwyn's face to the tips of her mud-encrusted shoes.

"Aye, and we are physicians, men of integrity," Tushratta returned as he lay his hand on her forehead. "I need not remind you of that." A strange sense of jealousy had begun to coil about the physician's heart, and he resented the attention that his assistant was paying their lovely patient.

"Of course, I know. I was only remarking..."

"Your remarks were inappropriate for a man of medicine. Observe now. Her skin is cold... Take her pulse, Aziru."

"Aye, Master Physician, her skin is like ice," he commented as he held her wrist. "It is steady, but slow!"

The physician stroked his bearded chin as he studied the woman. "It is necessary to remove her clothing now so that we may better examine her."

"Yes, Tushratta, yes!" Licking his dry lips, Aziru's eyes darted back and forth from the woman to the physician. To control the tremor in his hands, Aziru clenched and unclenched his fingers nervously. "By the Gods! I do not know if I trust my thoughts!"

"Aziru, it is not your thoughts which concern me, but rather your actions," the doctor remarked dryly. "Since examining this patient seems to distress you sorely, perhaps I should call one of Esarhaddon's eunuchs to aid me!"

"No, no, my colleague!" The shorter man paled slightly and shook his head in profuse denial. "You know I have been trustworthy all these years!"

"And you will continue to be." Tushratta's attention returned to the woman. "Now help me undress her. Remove her shoes and stockings."

"Certainly, Tushratta. I will attend to this woman as though she were the Goddess Herself, and I were a temple votary in charge of her sacred vestments!" After struggling with himself, Aziru had managed to subdue the trembling in his hands. Still, his eyes gleamed as he reverently slid off Goldwyn's boots and stockings and suppressed the urge to bow before her in subservience and beg to caress each one of her toes with his lips. Gathering the hem of her skirt in his hands, Tushratta eased it up along her legs, giving it a little tug when it reached her hips. Both men drew sharp breaths as their eyes swept over her full, exquisitely feminine body.

"By the Gods! Never have I seen such perfect beauty!" Aziru's gaze was riveted upon the dark blonde brush upon the triangle between the woman's shapely, pale thighs. "If I could put my hand upon her love mound for just a moment, then I would die and go to paradise..." He breathed heavily as a tawny finger skimmed lightly over the tips of the curly hair.

"Damn it, Aziru!" Tushratta snapped. "This examination is difficult enough as it is without your pawing her while she is unconscious!"

"Your forgiveness, Tushratta!" Aziru quickly withdrew his hand and clutched it to his chest. "I was overcome by her beauty!"

"You were overcome by your lusts! By the Gods, man! Have you no control! Your prick is jutting out like a spar on a ship! Now take care of that damn thing before you embarrass yourself further." Tushratta's curt words were cold and disapproving.

"Forgive me, Master Physician," Aziru demurred, his sweaty face flushing a deeper shade of red. Bowing his head in embarrassment, he reached down and discreetly rearranged his raging manhood in his pantaloons.

"Now if you have brought yourself under better discipline, help me strip off the rest of her clothes... and I suggest that it would be beneficial to both your health and peace of mind if you sated your needs more often in the tent of the camp prostitutes!" Tushratta gave his assistant an icy stare.

"I go there often, but it never seems to be enough," Aziru bemoaned. "I am a man of great passions!"

"You need a wife and some concubines," Tushratta shook his head in disgust. "They would keep you occupied and cooled off!"

"Ah, yes, Physician," Aziru took a deep breath and held it before exhaling. "That might help a little."

As Aziru lifted Goldwyn up, grunting with the effort, Tushratta guided her dress the rest of the way, easing it over her head and arms. Slowly the two men returned her limp form back to the table, placing a small pillow under her head and adjusting her body so that she would be resting in a comfortable position.

"Her breasts!" Aziru gasped in awe as he clutched the table for support. "They are like the sweet sun-ripened melons from Khand, the nipples pink like polished rhodochrosite from Harad! What I would give to spend just one night with her! Surely," he turned to face Tushratta, "there would be no harm in just touching one of her rosy nipples."

Tushratta frowned at his assistant. "Do not start that up again! Keep touching the woman improperly and the slaver will have your testicles sliced off and put you to serve as a eunuch in his harem! Only I will conduct this examination, for I am the head physician."

"Physician, I do not know what has come over me, save that the woman's beauty has bewitched me and taken my senses! Women are a temptation to a male, and many a good man has been brought to ruin by their wiles!" Aziru intoned apologetically as he clasped his hands across his middle and dropped his gaze to study the curved points of his shoes.

"There are reasons why some men veil their women, Aziru, and debauched perverts like you are one of them!" Shaking his head, Tushratta began to move his deft fingers over Goldwyn's body, prodding for broken bones and internal injuries. Other than a few ugly bruises, scrapes and scratches on her arms, legs and face, the woman had come through her ordeal virtually unscathed physically. After draping a linen sheet over her form, the physician stared down at the woman, an expression of total bafflement upon his face.

"Could she have ingested some herb or plant which has had this effect upon her?" Aziru offered as he continued to study the points of his shoes.

"There are many things which could have had this effect upon the golden haired woman, Aziru, and we know what they are... poppies, mandrake, valerian, belladonna... any number of substances." The physician stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Since few things are growing now, I do not think that the accidental ingestion of plants is the source of the problem. This malady bears further studying before I can make a sound diagnosis."

"When she was first brought here, you were reluctant to talk in the presence of the orcs," Aziru ventured, looking to the physician. "Perhaps you now will enlighten me as to the circumstances under which she was found? Perhaps together with our combined knowledge, we will solve this mystery and determine some cure."

Tushratta sighed. "Aziru, do not make anything more out of this than what is there... She was found unconscious in an abandoned tomb."

"Tushratta! You should have informed me of this before!" Eager to redeem himself in the eyes of his master, Aziru postulated excitedly as he gestured wildly with his hands, "There is our answer! The woman chanced upon one of the _Edimmu_ in the crypt and angered it! These wandering spirits are extremely vindictive towards the living! If a man incurs their wrath, these phantoms have the power to curse him with terrible sicknesses!"

"Aziru, I am well acquainted with the supposed powers of the Edimmu. However, we have no proof that the woman has been afflicted by them." Even as he said these words, Tushratta recalled the state in which he had found the woman, her thighs spread wide, her arms reaching as though to clasp a lover. Though he did not want to admit it, Aziru was putting his own thoughts into words.

"Master, if you will allow me to continue..." Aziru's eyes were pleading as he looked at the physician.

"Go on, Aziru," Tushratta nodded. "I will listen to your theories. Whether I accept them or not is another matter."

Aziru's voice lowered, and he spoke in hushed tones. "The Edimmu can inflict people with a pox that covers their victims' bodies in running lesions; curse them with ulcerous sores that will not heal and penetrate so deeply into their bones that they are severed; torment them with black canker of the privy parts that will waste away the procreative organs; and afflict them with other evil maladies! Some say that they can even possess the living and cause them to behave as though mad! They are horrible, horrible!"

Out of wind after his quick rush of words, Aziru paused to regain his breath before continuing. "The greatest among all the spiritual healers recommend first bleeding of the sufferer. Then fire cups are to be applied to the back and shoulders, with wet compresses bound about the wounds to aid their healing." He closed his eyes, shuddering at the thought of the wicked spirits. "The Edimmu are stubborn and it takes much effort to drive them away. Dishes of food must be set out to pacify them and cause them to forsake the victim. Censers of aromatic incense must constantly be burning, for the evil spirits cannot abide the wholesome zephyrs. Prayers and chants must be offered to the gods so that they might have mercy and speed the flight of the malevolent presences from the victim's body. All this must be done if this woman is to be cured of her malady!" His face animated, his voice fervent, Aziru was hopeful that the master physician was as impressed with his knowledge as Aziru himself was.

"Aziru," Tushratta replied calmly, "you are becoming agitated. We have no reason to believe that such treatment is necessary... yet." He wanted to find a logical explanation for the woman's sickness, for he feared the alternative.

"Aye, Master Physician, but we have every indication that the woman has been possessed by a dark spirit, and such treatment is necessary in her case." Bowing his head humbly, Aziru clasped his hands together and looked to Tushratta. "Of course, you are the master physician here, and I defer to your superior knowledge."

"Aziru, you have already arrived at a treatment before we are even certain of the malady!" Tushratta stared at the table where Goldwyn lay, the sumptuous hills of her breasts clearly visible through the thin sheet. "Your assumption that the woman has been afflicted by some manifestation of a preternatural presence is unfounded. Your theories are based upon circumstantial evidence, not upon calm, reasoned observations." The physician watched as Goldwyn's bosom rose and fell with her breathing, and a sigh escaped his lips.

Looking back to Aziru, Tushratta spoke more rapidly. "The methods that you have mentioned can be quite weakening upon the body. When the woman awakens from her stupor, what a shock it will be to her mind when she discovers that two doctors whom she considers heathens have not only beheld her nakedness, but have inflicted strange treatments upon her body! Even if such remedies would be deemed necessary, I am not qualified to administer them and neither are you! Our field is the physical, not the spiritual! Now I am taking her to my cot and there she will rest. See about her occasionally, because, from the size of the crowd outside, I shall be occupied for quite a while!"

Staring down at Goldwyn, Tushratta ran a finger over the bow of her silent, cold lips, and the urge came over him to bend down and taste her sweetness. "Such a beauty," he thought fondly. Picking up the woman in his arms, he carried her through the open curtain between the two chambers of the tent. Placing her upon his cot, he covered her limp form with a quilt and glanced down at her for a moment. With a sense of deep regret, he braced himself inwardly for the challenge of dealing with the hatred and prejudice of her simple, barbaric people.

* * *

**NOTES**

Edimmu - In Sumerian mythology, the Edimmu were ghosts or wandering spirits. Vengeful and vindictive towards the living, they could possess people. They could sometimes be appeased by offering them a funeral repast.


	9. How the Ignorant Grope

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Never had the Southern slavers experienced a servile mutiny of such a magnitude as that of the rebellion of the Rohirric women. Although the slavers of the House of Huzziya were loath to admit it even to each other, they were shaken by its ramifications. Those Gondorian women and children who had been captured in the early days of the war had proved to be far more docile than the wild barbarian people of the North. The Rohirric men were fierce fighters, many preferring death to capture, and some of their women were no less savage than their men.

Accustomed to the passivity and subservience so prized in the women of their own land, the dignified Khandian doctors were ill fitted to deal with such raw passion. Since Tushratta and Aziru possessed little experience in dealing with so many patients who were both angry and injured, each man was uncertain as to the best way of handling the unique situation. Obviously, in addition to medical skills, both diplomacy and tact were needed.

Tushratta and Aziru surveyed the three dark-skinned slave boys who stood respectfully at attention, their heads bowed and their hands folded in front of them. "Boys, you must be cautious in dealing with these women, for a word taken wrong might turn them into lionesses. I had considered having the guards bind each woman hand and foot when she was brought into this tent, but I have decided that would only contribute to their state of agitation. We will use severe measures only if kindness fails." Tushratta waited for each boy to nod his acknowledgement before he went on with his instructions.

"You," he motioned to one of the boys, "will be responsible for filling the vessels with fresh water and bearing away the basins of impure water after surgery. And you," he turned to another, "will aid my assistant and take him the instruments and other things that we will need. And you, Hibiz," he looked to the third boy, "besides doing as we might direct you, you will keep a vigil upon the ailing woman in my chambers, visiting her twice every hour. If necessary, the whole group of you might be called upon to hold down a patient who struggles and refuses to drink the calming potions. Now prostrate yourselves in reverence as the Chief Assistant and I meditate and invoke the power and advice of the healing goddesses."

"Master Physician, to hear is to obey!" The three boys cheerfully echoed almost in unison as they bowed their way back to one of the tent walls and then sank prostrate upon the floor. Tushratta and Aziru sat cross-legged on the cushions which lay on the carpet. Bowing their heads, their lips moving silently, the physician and his assistant spent some minutes in contemplation before arising.

"Ho! Hibiz, fetch a bottle of wine and goblets for the worthy Chief Assistant Aziru and myself and place them on the small bench beside my examining table," Tushratta commanded the boy. "The wine always proves useful in steadying my hand... When all is in readiness, open the tent and allow the patients admittance. We will see what misfortune has brought to us today."

"Afflictions in abundance... such a great throng of the injured!" Aziru remarked sadly as he put an eye up to the crack between the tent flaps and peeked through the opening. "And some are quite angry!"

"Perhaps I should go out and try to calm them," Tushratta mused out loud as he thoughtfully stroked his dark, wiry beard.

"Master Physician, perhaps you should!" Aziru bobbed his head up and down in agreement, the light from the lamps gleaming off his oiled, balding pate. "The women's voices buzz as viciously as bees whose hive has been disrupted!"

Moving past Aziru, Tushratta drew back the tent flap. He found that while he had been examining Goldwyn, the guards had brought more patients. A quick assessment revealed that most of the women and children had suffered only minor injuries. Some of the prisoners eyed the physician through blackened eyes, their lips swollen and their faces cut and bruised. Although some favored their arms, holding them at unnatural angles, at least there seemed to be only one broken leg, that of a small boy who lay crying on the ground.

Smiling politely, Tushratta bowed before addressing the crowd in his heavily accented Common Speech. "In Khand, my own country, I am called Tushratta, and I am a physician. This man beside me is Aziru, the Chief Assistant, and he will aid me in treating you." The group looked at the two Khandians dubiously. Aziru placed one of the physician's supply chests on the ground in front of him, and at a nod from Tushratta, he opened the lid. "Here you will see jars and phials of salves, unguents, boluses, various potions used in healing, and rolls of cloth for bandages," the physician explained. "Do you wish to look inside to assure yourselves that all is as I have related?"

The captives murmured and shook their heads. Glaring at the two doctors, a sour-faced older woman spat out, "Keep that devil's box of evil away from me! It is cursed with the most malignant of hexes and charms!" Square-jawed, her nose straight and pinched, her lips thin and pale, the woman was narrow of shoulder and broad of beam. Nature had created her almost bereft of neck, and her head seemed to be sprouting from her shoulders. A black kerchief tied about her thin, graying hair did little to help her appearance, and the shabby brown grease-stained dress which she wore made her look all the more dowdy. A defiant look upon her wide, scowling face, she dared the two doctors to challenge her words, her defiant stance making her resemble a belligerent black and brown broody hen with her feathers puffed out to make herself appear larger.

Sighing, Tushratta enunciated slowly in his heavy accent, "Grandmother, with all courtesy accorded to you because of your age, if I really were a sorcerer, I certainly would consider turning that adder's tongue of yours into a stone so it would be silent!" He congratulated himself that he possessed the good sense not to display the case that contained his surgeon's tools - the sight of saws, knives, drills, tweezers, needles, clamps and various other instruments would only have worked these women up into a hysterical frenzy.

"Son of a dog!" the woman shrieked. "May Béma trample you under his horse's hooves on his midnight ride! You and your wicked assistant will pay for your crimes someday!" The drab matron shook her fist at him as several other women encouraged her by muttering similar curses under their breath and spitting to the side in contempt.

"Good ladies," Tushratta had quickly regained his usual calm demeanor after his temporary agitation, "though you see me as an enemy, you are mistaken. I mean you no harm - only good."

"Good?" the woman let out another string of invectives. "There was no good in your invasion of the Mark!"

"Lady, I am not - nor have I ever been in all my life - a soldier," Tushratta explained patiently. "The only reason that I own a sword is for my own protection, and never have I had cause to raise it. What has happened has happened, but I bear no blame for any of it. I am a doctor, and my life is dedicated to healing."

"Well, I do not know so much about that. You are one of the enemy's sorcerers, and you do as much evil as your land's accursed soldiers, maybe more with all your spells and enchantments!" the woman hissed.

"I have already related to you that I am a physician, not a sorcerer! This whole discussion is the height of absurdity, and now it is at an end! In spite of your age, Madame, if you continue with it, I will call the guards to restrain you!" Tushratta slammed the medical box shut, an uncommon display of temper for the usually dispassionate physician.

With a great "humph," the indignant woman concluded that perhaps it would be to her best advantage to be silent. A great murmuring went up among the crowd, but none of the women dared contend with the physician after that stern warning.

Touching an amulet that hung around his neck, Aziru whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Master, behold the gleaming fire of anger in the malevolent pale eyes of the women! The wise say that such eyes are full of wickedness! At least none of them have weapons! May the Gods of Bablon protect us if they were armed!" Once again, the surgeon's assistant made the sign against evil behind his back, as he had done several times whilst listening to the exchange between the master physician and the dour matron.

"Be still, Aziru," Tushratta whispered to the fretful man beside him. "You spout superstitious nonsense! They are only women, and they are frightened."

"Only women?" Aziru gasped in dismay as he secretly warded off evil with the apotropaic sign. "Some of them are veritable amazons, large, robust and endowed with great strength. I do not doubt that several of them could join together and flatten me! Some are taller than I! When you are as small as I am, you have to worry!"

Ignoring his assistant's remarks, Tushratta turned back to the women and after managing a benign, dignified expression once more, he resumed speaking to them in what he considered a calm, comforting manner. "I turn away none who come to me. Do not worry. All will be well." Gesturing to a nervous Aziru at his side, he continued, "You will be pleased to know that my assistant speaks far better Common than I. He can help with any problems of translation."

Hopeful that he had used the right words in the difficult Common, Tushratta gave the crowd another placid smile. "A physician in his own right, the Chief Assistant will first ascertain the extent of your injuries. Those who are hurt the least will form a line to the right. Those with more serious injuries will form to the left. If there is any confusion, the guards who have so kindly brought you here will settle the matter. Now, if you will excuse me, I go now to my tent to await the first patient."

Tushratta knew that none of what he had said to them made any difference; the women were as hostile and suspicious as ever. Disconcerted by the women's continuing animosity, the flustered physician fumbled in his choice of parting words. "And... It was very nice talking with you very lovely and pleasant ladies." A slight titter rippled over the crowd, and the doctor could not determine whether the women were genuinely amused or if they were simply mocking him. Flushing in embarrassment, the reserved physician bowed quickly and turned to leave.

"Tush-rat-ta," a tall young blonde woman, sweet-faced and gentle of manner, carefully pronounced his name, "my son's leg is injured... he cannot bear weight upon it! I ask you to treat him!"

Turning around to face the woman, Tushratta responded, "Probably only a sprain, good lady. He will be attended to as soon as we have found the cause of his pain." Unable to resist a bit of sarcasm, he added, "Are you, most earnest lady, sure that you trust this wretched heathen doctor enough to allow him to treat your son?"

"I do not care what you are, healer! Just help my little boy!" What did it matter that he was a man of the enemy! He at least seemed a kind man, and he had promised to help her son. All she had left in the world was her child, and the last of her reservations crumbled as the little boy whimpered and clung to her skirt.

"Wait in line then, gracious lady. When I can, I will see to your son." A slight smile of satisfaction flickered over Tushratta's face as he walked away and entered his tent.

******•¤•¤•**

Tushratta's first patient was a small, frightened girl who held her mother's hand tightly. The woman looked uncertainly about the tent as though she expected to see a circle of wizards cackling around a sacrificial victim.

"Madame, good day," Tushratta encouraged jovially. "Bring the child over here and help her upon the table."

"Yes, healer," she replied hesitantly as she lifted the girl onto the table.

"What is your name, little girl?" the physician asked as he removed the blood-drenched makeshift bandage that her mother had tied about the wound. When he saw the nasty rent in the child's right forearm, Tushratta wondered how such a ghastly injury could have been inflicted, unless it were the product of orc-work. He would not put anything past those brutes who took fiendish glee in torturing other living beings, even their own kind. "Savages," he thought with disgust. Quietly, one of the servant boys brought a basin of water and cloths.

"You are hurting me," the girl reproached Tushratta angrily as he cleaned the wound.

"Forgive me." His voice was apologetic, his expressive brown eyes tender. "I am trying not to hurt you any more than is necessary, but I must remove the dirt from your arm."

"Tell him your name, child," her mother urged her gently.

"Mother, I am afraid of the bad man!" Hunig twisted her head around to look at her mother. "He will put a curse upon my arm and cause it to fall off!" She spoke in Rohirric as she related her fears to her mother.

"No, Hunig," Leofgifu gave her a gentle, reassuring smile, "he will do no such thing! Now be a sensible girl and let the doctor treat you!" Moving back slightly to give them room, Leofgifu still kept a watchful eye upon the doctor and his assistant.

The child looked skeptically to Tushratta. "My name is Athelwyn, but I am called Hunig," the little girl pronounced solemnly in broken Common Speech.

The injury was a deep one, and even though it must have bled profusely, still some dirt had managed to contaminate the gash. Tushratta's full attention was required to remove all of the particles so that mortification would not set in. Placing the bloodied cloth in the bowl held by a servant, the physician turned to Leofgifu. "This wound is deep and must be stitched. How did your daughter receive it?"

"Last night, during all the tumult and confusion when- when-" How could she tell him that her nieces had been among those who had escaped the night before? If this Eastern doctor knew about Elfhild and Elffled, would he become angry and refuse to treat Hunig? Or even worse - would he hurt the child out of a perverse desire for retribution?

Seeing the woman's discomfort, the physician spoke the words she would not say. "-When some of your people tried to escape. And you and your daughter, of course, made the attempt to regain your freedom. I understand, Madame. You do not need to apologize. It is not uncommon for slaves to attempt to escape."

"No," Leofgifu replied, embarrassed. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Though I would give anything to be back in my own land, I knew that we would only borrow grief to attempt such an ill-conceived plan. However, Hunig lost her head and panicked when the others started running. She tripped and fell over her own feet and landed upon a sharp stone."

"Then it was not the orcs who hurt your little child?" Aziru asked in mild surprise.

"No, not this time," Leofgifu replied warily.

"However she received it," the physician replied sympathetically, "the wound must be sutured. Madame, will you please tell your child that I do not wish to hurt her, but only to aid her healing?"

"Mother, what does he want to do to me?" Hunig asked desperately. She knew the meanings of some of the words which were exchanged between the physician and her mother, but she was uncertain if she understood all of them correctly.

Leofgifu looked into her daughter's blue eyes and stroked her uninjured hand. "Your arm needs to be stitched, Hunig. This will hurt but it is the only way to help your arm to heal properly."

"No!" Hunig cried and began to weep. Murmuring soft words of comfort, Leofgifu drew the sobbing child to her bosom.

"Madame, I want your daughter to drink a glass of hot, soothing tea. The flavor will be unfamiliar to her, but it should not be unpleasant. She will soon fall into a relaxed state and feel little of the sting when the wound is repaired. Will you explain this to her?"

Leofgifu turned to the physician, her eyes probing his for reassurance, wanting to trust him. These people seemed so different from the Rohirrim, so alien, dark and suspicious looking. He came from a far away land, and she did not even know where it was. She could read nothing in his expression, save for what she took as compassion. She would accept that. There was no other choice. She would trust this mild-mannered man of the East.

"Healer, do what you must do to save my daughter's arm!"

Busying himself, the physician's assistant soon had a pan of water roiling upon the brass brazier in the center of the tent. Green tea, dried orange peal, sugar and paste of poppies were steeped in a pot of boiling water. Smiling, Aziru poured the contents into a small glass and stirred the liquid around with a spoon.

"If you drink this, little Northern princess whose face rivals the glow of the full moon, I shall dance for you and make you laugh. Please, for me." Aziru went down upon one knee, contorted his face into a comical expression, and offered the glass to Hunig. A small, shy smile appeared at the corners of the girl's mouth.

"Hunig, please drink it," her mother encouraged her. "He says it will keep the pain away."

"All right, Mother. I will drink it because he says such amusing things, and I would like to see him dance." As Hunig brought the glass to her lips and tasted the liquid, a quizzical expression appeared upon her face, and then she smiled in approval. "It tastes good, like nothing I have ever had before!"

From his robe, Aziru drew a small reed pipe, and, smiling, he put the instrument up to his mouth and cajoled it into a melody strange to Hunig's ears. Slowly at first, he spun around the room in circles, a swirling, turning dance. Taking his lips from his flute, faster and faster he gyrated until Hunig begin to feel dizzy. As he twirled, he began to chant in his own language, a strangely soothing sound, punctuated occasionally by a loud exhalation of breath. A euphoric expression came over his face as he began to rotate in tighter and tighter circles, his hands held straight out at his sides, his grunts coming in unison. As the opium filled tea began to have its effect upon Hunig, she found herself floating across the carpeted floor of the tent and dancing alongside the dark little man.

"Mother, I am dancing among the clouds," Hunig sighed as her eyes began to roll back in her head. The physician caught her as her body sagged backwards upon the table.

"Dance," she sighed languorously, speaking half in Rohirric, half in Common Speech, "dance... O strange man of the East, hold me between the heaven and the earth, and, forgetting all sorrows, we will dance together."

Smiling slightly, Tushratta turned to Leofgifu. "Lady, your daughter sleeps peacefully now, and so I will begin my work."

Accepting a needle from the tray held by one of the slave boys, Aziru used wooden handled tweezers to grasp it as he purified the metal in the flame. After threading the needle with catgut, he handed it to the physician. Tushratta bent over his work, repairing the deeper internal breach with the catgut. Next, taking a needle threaded with the silk, he joined the two severed sections of flesh together with small, tidy stitches and tied them off.

Opening a small jar on the tray, the physician dipped his fingers into a creamy substance and spread it over the wound. After winding a strip of linen around Hunig's arm, Tushratta tore the end of the strip, wrapping it back over the bandage and then tying the ends in a knot. Bending down, the physician waited while Hibiz wiped his forehead with a soothing cloth dipped in rosewater and then washed his hands in the bowl. After the slave boy had dried the doctor's hands on a towel, Tushratta commanded, "Boys, dump out the evil water and fetch some fresh. We will need much water and cloths before the day is over."

Tushratta turned back to Leofgifu. "Now, Madame, I suggest you have a draught of wine to steady your nerves. My assistant will carry your daughter to one of the sleeping mats at the side of the tent. She will slumber for quite some time yet, perhaps for a few hours. You can wait here with her until she awakens, or if you wish, I will have her carried back to the camp. Before you leave, you will be given more salve and bandaging material. You are to remove the bandages when they are soiled, clean the wound carefully, apply salve and bind up the wound with fresh dressing. If, when you change her dressing later, the wound has grown angry and inflamed, bring her back to me."

"Thank you, sir." First looking into his eyes for permission, she took his hand and kissed it in gratitude, stricken with awe that one of the enemy could be so kind. "I will accept your offer of wine if you would be so gracious. I will wait here with my daughter until she awakes."

"As you wish, Madame," Tushratta replied pleasantly as the servant boy poured goblets of wine.

As he drank, the physician pondered these perplexing fair-skinned, blonde barbarians. "This poor ignorant woman does not quite know what to think of us. Probably few of her people have ever beheld a doctor before, and they perceive my medical chest as a repository of dark and evil potions! These primitive people must think that all of the people of my land are workers of dark sorcery, who are eager to afflict them all with the evil eye! These poor, unfortunate wretches are birthed with only the aid of ignorant midwives and would think that calling a physician was some strange new fancy. No doubt they die with nothing more than a draught of ale to ease their death struggles. How ignorant and backward they are, and they think that I am a barbarian!"

How insulting it was to be reviled by these backward people! Were the two years that he had spent studying under the village doctor for naught! And then when he had learned all that he could from that physician, Tushratta had gone to Bablon and spent several years studying medicine under the most famous physician in the land. Truly, he was affronted at the treatment that he had received from the Rohirric women! All learned and intelligent people surely knew that the most advanced medicine in all of Middle-earth was developed in the East!

"Barbarians," he muttered under his breath as he took another drink of wine to soothe the pain of rejection. Then he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.


	10. A Cup of Kindness

Chapter Written by Angmar

The weather that afternoon had turned hot and muggy. Even though the tent flaps were tied back, the weak breeze which found its way inside could do little to drive away the overpowering odors of sweat, urine, vomit, excrement and blood. Combining with all these unpleasant smells were the pungent aromas of animal fat, dried flower petals, herbs, incense and strong antiseptics. There were few friendly faces amongst the patients, and the physicians had difficulty containing their tempers as they were met with muttered curses, glares, and signs to ward away evil.

"My Masters will be happy to learn that there is only one more patient who awaits their attention," announced Hibiz after returning from talking with a guard at the entryway of the tent.

"And what is the nature of the injury?" Tushratta inquired, not looking up from a scroll on the table before him. A reed pen poised in his right hand, the man looked down at the elegant, flowing script which he had just inscribed upon the parchment.

"Master, the boy's mother states that one of his fingers is broken," Hibiz replied as he kept his dark brown eyes respectfully averted.

An absentminded expression upon his face, the physician glanced at the boy. "Send in the lad and his mother."

"Master, a word brings instant obedience!" Hibiz bowed his way to the entry of the tent.

A tall, pinch-faced woman wearing a cream-colored kerchief about her dirty blonde hair, a drab green dress upon her thin body, and a tattered gray shawl clutched about her broad, bony shoulders walked into the chamber. At her side was a gangling boy of about eight summers, whom she held by the hand. He had outgrown his shabby brown tunic, and his stained breeches were too short by at least three inches. A sullen look on his face, he stared at his surroundings with tear-swollen eyes. "Mother, I am afraid," he mumbled over and over again in Rohirric as he fidgeted restlessly.

"Hush, son, do not let the heathens know of your fear! They will use it against you, mark my words!"

"What will they do, Mother?" the boy asked warily, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping.

"They will steal your soul and put it in the body of a dead person!" she whispered.

Terrified more by his mother's words than of the heathen doctor, the boy cried louder. He refused to budge, dug in his heels and howled like an abandoned puppy. Clenching his hand in a vise-like grip, the woman dragged him across the carpeted floor. "Mother, save me! The evil men are looking at me!"

"There, you have gone and done it, blubbering like that and making a scene! Now be quiet!" his mother angrily rebuked him.

Rising to their feet, Tushratta and Aziru nodded to the pair. When he spoke in his richly accented Khandian, the physician's voice was calm and cool. "Madame, if you will just bring your son over here and seat him on this stool, we should soon have his injury diagnosed and tended."

"Mother, what did he say?" the boy asked frantically, having difficulty understanding the Khandian's pronunciation of Common.

"He said that if you do not behave yourself, he will turn you into a drop of water, put you in a pot, and boil you until there is nothing left. And he means it!"

"I will behave! You can be sure of that!" the boy whimpered as he sat down on the stool.

"What is your name, boy, and where are you injured?" Tushratta asked as he looked into the boy's tear-swollen blue eyes.

"Gyrth." The boy rubbed the forefinger of his uninjured hand under his dripping nose, flipping the moisture to the side with a snap of his wrist "My finger, sir," he replied tearfully.

"Gyrth, let me see your finger."

"Mother, should I?" Gyrth whined as he looked up at his mother for direction. Her mouth set in a grim line, she nodded her approval. "Here, sir," he replied, extending his hand and turning his head away.

During the examination, the boy kicked the doctor in the shin, but was rewarded by a sound cuff from his mother. His dispassionate demeanor unruffled by the pain, Tushratta looked to his assistants and ordered, "Hibiz, make more tea. Aziru, prepare the splints and dressings." Turning back to the mother, he informed her, "Madame, your son's finger is broken. It must be set so that it will grow back sound and straight. My slave boy is preparing a draught that will take away the pain."

"You mean intensify it," the woman retorted suspiciously. "No potion made by any ally of the Dark Land could be of any good."

"Madame, how could you stand there and in all honesty say such a thing? Surely you have witnessed your own people who have received treatment in this tent! Truly you could not say that they were the worse for having been here!" After a day of hearing such accusations, Tushratta's patience was close to running its course.

"They were all enchanted," the woman rejoined, adamant in her illogic.

"Surely, Madame, you must give us credit for possessing some degree of intelligence and ability. After all, the ancestors of the people of Khand invented the wheel; the calendar; developed the principles of irrigation; arithmetic and geometry; and bitumen waterproofing... even beer. " The physician tapped his fingers together. "Their advancements are endless, and the only reason why you do not know about these accomplishments is because your ancestors left the East before civilization really began. The only reason that the men of the West are not complete savages, running through the forests like wild beasts, is because the elves taught them what they never learned in the East." Tushratta folded his arms across his chest and stared calmly into the woman's eyes. Speechless, she could no longer meet his gaze and dropped her eyes towards the floor.

"Master Physician, the tea." Hibiz presented the doctor with a tray holding a glass of hot tea.

"Thank you, Hibiz." Looking into Gyrth's face, the physician cautioned him to be careful when lifting the glass of tea, for the liquid was very hot. Suspicious when he first tasted the tea, the boy soon discovered that the liquid was very sweet, and he drank it all and then asked for more. As the doctors waited for the potion to take effect, Aziru entertained the boy with a set of small camel-hide puppets and told the story of two inmates in an insane asylum who persuaded the doctor that he was the one who was really mad.

Although he fought sleep, Gyrth began to doze off, for the drug used in the tea was a potent one. When the boy was sound asleep, Aziru and Hibiz held and steadied him as the physician set, splinted and bandaged his finger. Turning to the woman, Tushratta began, "Madame, I will tell you this now. While your son is still in a lethargic state, I intend to lance the reeking carbuncle upon his neck. It covers an area as big as my thumb and is as red as the stone which shares its name! You should have told me this before and not attempted to conceal it from me."

Horrified, the woman stared at him. "I will not allow you to use a knife on my son!"

Signing to the two guards at the entryway, Tushratta summoned them inside. Soon two burly green-clad guardsmen stood before him and saluted. "Bring a stool, Hibiz," the physician ordered. "The lady needs to sit down for a while."

"What are you going to do!" The woman was wild-eyed as the guards approached her.

"Give you something to make you see the most fantastic visions that you have ever experienced in your life. You will think you are in paradise." Tushratta smiled.

"Keep your hands off me!" The outraged woman looked from one guard to the other as they gripped her by the arms and half dragged, half carried her to the stool. Shoving her down upon it, they pulled her arms behind her back and held them securely. Aziru brought a glass of cool tea up to her lips. "No!" she shrieked. "I will not drink your foul devil's brew! You are trying to poison me!"

"I think you will, Madame," Aziru chuckled as he forced the rim of the glass against her lips. Holding her jaw in a firm grip, he applied pressure to the joints to force her teeth apart. Quickly, his hand clamped her mouth shut. As she began to choke on the liquid, Hibiz pinched her nostrils closed, forcing her to drink or strangle. "You will feel better soon," Aziru smiled smugly.

The men waited until the poppy tea had woven its peaceful spell over the quarrelsome woman. "Now at last she is quiet! Carry her to one of the reed sleeping mats," Tushratta directed as he took the small sharp fire-cleansed knife from Hibiz' hand. As Aziru and Hibiz steadied the boy in the chair, Tushratta sliced deftly across the putrid swelling. Holding his breath, he opened the twin foul-smelling, pus-laden sores.

"Oh, Master!" an ashen faced Hibiz moaned as he clenched his stomach. "I must go outside, for I am ill!"

Tushratta nodded to the groaning boy, who quickly dashed from the tent, holding his stomach. "He will get accustomed to it," the physician assured his chief assistant.

A determined expression on his face, Aziru bore down with his thumbs around the base of the sore, squeezing out the corruption into a basin. "Aye," he agreed as he cleaned the last of the infection from the wound and dropped the bloody rag into the bowl. "The ghastly stench once bothered me, but it has been many years since I lost a meal over it."

"After all the bloody work today, I could use a bath as quickly as possible," Tushratta told them as he lathered his hands in the basin of water held by one of the slave boys. "The patient and his mother will not be awake for some time."

**‹•›‹•›‹•›**

Tushratta's clothing was saturated with bloodstains and corruption from his patients' wounds and the grime accumulated over the night spent on the hunt. His body felt as sweaty and filthy as that of a slave who had labored from dawn to dusk clearing the silt from one of the irrigation ditches which spread out from the Great River of Khand. Later, he would have the slave boys bring a tub and fill it with hot rosewater. A happy smile came over his face as he thought of soaking in a deliciously long and luxuriant bath, but for the time he would be content to refresh himself with pouring a jug of water over his head and body.

After slipping out of his soft leather slippers, he undid his corded belt, pulled his tunic and shirt over his head and stepped out of his pantaloons. Tossing his soiled garments to a basket of dirty laundry in the corner of the tent, he turned to a brightly painted pottery container of water on a small table. Lifting the vessel up, he let the cooling water stream over his head, neck, back and shoulders and run down his lean, muscular body in torrents.

Refreshed after ridding his clean-shaven body of most of the sweat, grime and unpleasant odor, he smiled as he dried himself. Slipping on a light tan caftan, he placed his slippers back upon his feet. The time had come to see to the mysterious sleeping lady. Perhaps she would be awake at last and he could talk with her. Placing a goblet, wine bottle, half a loaf of flat bread, cheese, and dried figs upon a platter, he stepped through the curtain that divided the tent and placed the tray on the low table in front of his couch.

He found that the woman still slumbered on his bed, the coverlet draped over her undisturbed. Frowning, he walked to one of his chests and searched until he came upon a thick, worn leather bound volume. He thumbed through the tome until he found a chapter entitled "On the Nature of Those Who Are Afflicted With Evil Spirits." Returning, he sat down cross-legged in front of the low table and positioned a pillow behind his back. Sipping from his goblet of wine, he moved his finger down the page until he came to a paragraph of interest and read avidly.

"Divers and many are these spirits which may torment the living. Those who wish to free the victims of these unclean beings must first make themselves ready by cleansing their bodies with water that has been blessed by the high priest. Submitting himself to the scrutiny of the gods, the ashipu must stand naked and humble in the closed chamber of purification. Then as the vapors of incenses devoted to the great Mardu and all the holy divinities of Bablon waft around him, he will chant the special prayers and invocations to the Gods and Goddesses. Thus purified and prepared for the ordeal he will face, he will then drink the draught of sauma, thus opening his soul and senses to the direct influence of the gods. Be cautioned... Only after these rituals have been performed is the ashipu prepared to offer himself up to meditation and supplication so that he may..."

His reading was interrupted by Aziru, who had slid quietly into the chamber. "Master Physician, I did not mean to disturb your reading, but the Shakh has just returned. He is in a very great haste to see the woman. He awaits now in the outer chamber."

"Then show him in, Aziru." Muttering to himself, Tushratta put the book and goblet down upon the table and rose to his feet. For some reason which he could not quite explain, the physician felt irritated at the slaver's unexpected arrival.

"It is not necessary to show me in," the slaver announced as he pushed his way through the curtains. Striding past Aziru, who was attempting to bow, the slaver walked over to the couch and looked down at Goldwyn.

"The woman is still sleeping, I see." An accusatory expression upon his face, the slaver looked angry enough to strike Tushratta. "What have you done to her? Filled her full of hashish and poppies? That is all you ever do, is it not, Physician?"

Aziru glanced anxiously at the physician, whose tawny skin was flushed ruddy with anger. A mild mannered man by nature, Tushratta's temper had been rankled by the slavers assertions, but he determined not to allow his agitation to show through his calm, professional exterior.

"Shakh Esarhaddon," the physician spoke with quiet dignity, "though her sleep is unnatural, it was not induced by any narcotics. You offend my integrity by making a hasty judgment before even asking me what treatment I have prescribed."

The slaver's stormy brown eyes probed those of the physician, but then his hard gaze softened and his body relaxed. "Forgive me, Tushratta. I spoke out of turn. The night and day have been long ones, and I am damn tired."

"No umbrage is taken, Shakh," Tushratta assured him, his voice calm. "The woman has been as you see her now since she was first found in the tomb. My suggestion is that we allow her to sleep. If we attempt to awaken her from such an unnatural slumber, we could possibly inflict further harm upon her. Let us leave her for a while and go to the outer chamber where we can discuss this matter over wine. The boy Hibiz will be attending to her, and should she awaken, he will quickly report."

Nodding his reluctant ascent, the slaver followed his physician to the outer chamber. The two slave boys soon had spread platters of flat bread, hard cheeses, dried meats, olives and pickles in brine, and goblets of heady Khandian wine before them. His face sullen, the shakh began eating his food silently.

"Shakh, what is the news of the escaped slaves?"

"Not good," Esarhaddon replied dourly as he broke a piece of the thin, yellow flatbread in two. "We have lost at least a day's time because of this damned business. Time lost is money lost." He chewed the bread vengefully, as though he had a grudge against the wheat which went in it. "And, yes, I have been informed already of the injuries incurred in last night's misadventure."

"Since arriving back at the camp, I have heard nothing except rumors about the women who are reputed to have leapt into the Anduin; it is thought they drowned. What is the truth of it?" Tushratta inquired.

"The orcs reported seeing three of the fools leaping into the river and disappearing under the current. Either they have evaded capture and escaped or they have drowned. My brother and I are in this business to make money, but when we lose slaves to happenstance or disease, the possibilities of showing a profit are greatly lessened." Esarhaddon set his goblet on the table. "More wine, boy! My throat is parched from the long trip!"

His heavy brows scowling, the slaver continued, "The time to be gentle with them is past! I have ordered that henceforth the women are to be kept chained in their coffles at night. If there is any hint of mutiny, the guilty ones will feel the switches laid smartly upon their white-skinned backs and buttocks." He could sense Tushratta's silent disapproval of such measures, and turned his anger against him. "Damn it, Tushratta, you know I am not a harsh man, but my reputation - and possibly even the future of our business establishment - is in peril if we allow slave rebellions to go unpunished!"

Tushratta studied a dry date before placing it into his mouth and made no comment as he chewed reflectively. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It is unfortunate that sometimes strict measures must be brought into play." Changing the subject, he asked, "Besides the three who are feared drowned, how many of the slaves remain uncaptured?" He brushed a linen napkin over the few crumbs that clung to his mustache and beard and turned to his wine.

"Besides the three, there are seven others who disappeared, but we will find them if they still live. My best trackers are out searching for the runaways. Though orcs are nothing but animals, the brutes have good noses on them!" The slaver looked down into his goblet and then took a stout drink of wine.

"Their abilities are deservedly renowned," Tushratta added disinterestedly, brushing a fly off the sleeve of his caftan.

"By the sweating, reeking, hairy groin of the Dark Wizard!" Esarhaddon swore, shaking his head. "You know that I detest employing such monsters! Dogs are just as effective and their bodies do not have the reek of orcs! Hounds are certainly less trouble!"

"One of the shortcomings of the system, but one under which we must labor," the physician pointed out dryly.

"A system that helps my brother and me become richer," the slaver replied as he cleansed his hands in a bowl of water brought to him by the ever smiling Hibiz.

"What are your plans now, Esarhaddon?" Tushratta asked. "Will you be going back to the hunt tonight?"

"I might get roaring drunk and forget my sorrows for a while," the slaver chuckled as he held his fingers out for the servant to dry. "My plans call for relaxing in a hot bath and then spending the remainder of the night engaged in love-sport between the soft, warm thighs of a lustful wench. If my men have not yet recaptured the runaways by morning, I will be joining my three lieutenants in the chase. The orcs will serve as our hounds." He laughed at his own sarcastic jab at the orcs, eliciting a polite nod from Tushratta and a sardonic grin from Aziru.

Esarhaddon mused over his wine goblet before announcing, "If it is necessary that I should be gone, I am placing you in charge during my absence. Remain here today and tomorrow and break camp at dawn upon the 20th. In the morning, you will follow through with the planned arrangements for the slave women and their offspring to be treated with olive oil to rid them of their teaming crops of vermin." The slaver scowled. "After the trouble they have put me through, I should forbid them to bathe and wash their garments in the river, but I have decided to be generous."

"Esarhaddon, that is a judicious course. The only thing that would be accomplished by taking away the privilege of bathing would be to force us all to endure the fetid stench of their bodies and the possibility of becoming contaminated with their lice. However, I do not think I am the best for the task of leadership. I have many other responsibilities, and there are the patients to whom I must attend..." Tushratta started to protest.

"Nonsense..." Esarhaddon leaned across the table and clasped the doctor's shoulder in a gesture of encouragement. "You are a good man and trustworthy. Besides, the added responsibility will be good for you."

"As you wish, Esarhaddon," the physician bowed his head in acquiescence.

"I have made arrangements for the care of Lady Goldwyn. I am sending over one of the camp prostitutes to help you tend to her." Observing Tushratta's arched eyebrow, the slaver quickly added, "You know all of them are clean and free of the pox that sets the organs of generation on fire. You should know," he laughed. "You examine them periodically."

Tushratta cleared his throat, preparing to make a protest. Aziru looked down, a sly smile upon his face.

"Now that bath awaits me." Esarhaddon rose to his feet and waited for the other man to stand and face him across the table. "My friend, the time comes for me to leave. If the woman awakens during the night - whatever the time - you are to send word to me immediately."

"Certainly, Esarhaddon." Tushratta nodded his head in affirmation. "May the blessings of your gods be upon you, may there always be salt and bread upon your table, water in your wells, shoes upon your horses' hooves, and may your seed find root and flourish in your women's bellies." Leaning forward, he inclined his head and brought his fingers to his heart, his lips and his forehead, bidding the slaver farewell.


	11. Land of the Dead

Chapter Written by Elfhild

After sighting the enemy patrol, the twins became keenly aware of their desperate need for weapons in these desolate wilds. Without any way to defend themselves, they were easy prey for wild animals or enemy patrols. Even with weapons, the journey would still be one fraught with peril, but at least the odds would be evened somewhat. Not much, but at least somewhat.

But what could they use for weapons? Fallen tree limbs would have to serve for clubs and spears; rocks in lieu of bow and arrow. Searching for branches light enough to carry yet stout enough to give a foe a nasty blow to the head, the twins found what they needed beneath the spreading boughs of a plane tree. The winds which came with the rains four days before had broken away several of the long, gray limbs and sent them crashing to the ground. The sisters chose two sturdy looking staves and went on their way. They prayed they would not have to use them. Such primitive weapons could hardly match iron in a fight.

Mid-afternoon brought Elfhild and Elffled to a ruined fishing village by the Anduin. Once one of many prosperous and bustling river towns in Anórien, the little village now was only another reminder of the desolation which the war had brought. By the water's edge, there was a long wharf where boats had once loaded and unloaded. In better days, ducks, geese and other birds lighted upon the weathered boards to eat the scraps that people threw to them. On both sides of a thoroughfare leading westward, buildings had been reduced to forlorn heaps of charred wood and soot-blackened stone. The gray hued rubble was a mournful sight to see as it lay in piles on the brown earth; a fading reminder of a people so recently vanquished.

"Grenefeld must look like this now," Elffled moaned despondently.

Elfhild stared at the rubble, her body held stiff and rigid, her mind taking her far from this small river town – to the North – to Rohan. A faint breeze picked up the strands of her straight, straw-colored hair and tossed them to the side. The musty smell of damp ashes clung to the air. Though it was summer, there was a chill in the wind, and it sent prickles along her spine. Still, she stood there, as though she had been turned to stone. Grenefeld – her village – she had seen the ruddy glow of the fires that night, smelled the acrid stench of smoke on the spring air. Her village – just another which fell to the hand of the enemy, so much like this one in Anórien.

A tug on her rolled-up sleeve pried Elfhild's attention away from the ruined town, and she turned her head to the side. There stood her sister, who looked at her uncertainly.

"What should we do now?" Elffled asked softly. "Head west on the road that goes through this village, or keep on going north?"

"I do not feel it would be wise to take the road," Elfhild replied, shaking her head. "What if we met that patrol we saw earlier?" She shivered, imagining their recapture by the cruel soldiers. "I think it would be best to wait before continuing onward."

Elffled glanced towards the town. "What about searching these ruins for anything that we might be able to use on our journey?" Though Elffled was vehemently opposed to this quest, she was a practical girl, and no matter how much she sulked, some shred of common sense always seemed to have a way of worming back into her brain. She would give this foolish venture a chance, but if one thing went wrong - just one thing - she would protest it highly!

Her brow furrowed in thought, Elfhild cast a scrutinizing glance around at the fishing village. "All right," she finally nodded. "We will explore the village, but keep a wary eye out for scouts."

The sisters wandered through the deserted streets, through the barren garths where gardens had once bloomed. With every step, their spirits sank lower and lower, sodden with sorrow like the mounded ashes which lay round in heaps. No words were said. A funereal hush hung over them like black clouds, gray and foreboding. Though they were there to scout out whatever plunder might still be left to take, neither girl felt much like exploring the blackened hulks of what once had been houses. Huddling together as though it were winter, the two yet among the living shuffled onward through this village of the dead.

"Well, there is no use just milling about with no purpose," Elfhild tittered, somewhat nervously, her voice disrupting the quietude as sharply as a raven's cry. "We have not done so much as approach any of these ruined buildings. As you were saying, who knows what we might find, unharmed by the fire?"

Elffled followed behind her sister as she walked towards the foundation stones of a large house. Chunks of the daub that had cracked away during the blaze lay in dirty piles upon the ground. Coming to the ruined doorway, Elfhild cautiously ventured forward, stepping over the stone threshold. There was no one living to tell the sisters what had happened to the village, but they surmised that the dreadful occurrence had been much like that which had befallen Grenefeld. Their men away at war, the women and children had been easy prey, with only a few having courage to challenge the orcs. These brave ones had either been bested in their struggles, or slain on the spot and left to die in their houses. Then the meeker ones who would not fight were quickly herded outside by the brutes and put in chains.

After the orcs had rounded up all the captives, they hurled lighted torches onto the thatched roofs, the straw igniting like dry tinder. Soon the flames were roaring through the houses like demons at play. At the height of the conflagration, the ceiling had crashed into the inferno, followed in its course by the walls of the building, there to crackle and burn in a fiery mound which gradually smoldered away. Though the intensity of the fire had been furious, not everything had been destroyed. The mud that had gone into the construction of the walls and the stone blocks around the foundation had spread a protective cloak over things left forlorn and abandoned...

Scattered over the blackened rubble on the ground were shards of pottery, metal which had melted into curious-looking lumps, and various other misshapen items which had not been consumed in the flames. Nothing stirred except a sleepy lizard which had been resting atop a blackened foundation stone. Now even that was gone, for the arrival of the sisters frightened the small creature and sent it scurrying away to safety.

As the girls walked gingerly about the interior, their feet crunched down on lumps of burnt wood, sending up soot that blackened their shoes. They looked about themselves, imagining how the house might have been arranged. Had it looked something like their home? Possibly it had much finer furnishings, they considered wistfully. Only the wealthy would have had the means to enjoy such a large house. Had this been the home of someone important, a village elder, perhaps? Elfhild and Elffled would never know. Their lives destroyed as their home had been, the survivors were now absent, suffering in captivity somewhere at the hands of the Southern slavers.

"There is nothing here to see but sadness," Elfhild muttered despondently.

"Wait, I see something!" Elffled exclaimed as she caught the glimpse of a partially buried object which protruded from under a dreary heap of dirt and ashes. "I wonder what this is... " Walking over to the rubble, she studied the long, pale object for a while, trying to determine what it might be. A broken shard of pottery... a ruined drinking horn, the antler of a deer... Then - as sudden as a strike of lightning - she realized what she beheld. Her breath halted in mid-inhalation; her heart seemed to shoot up in her chest like an arrow and then plunge back down into the confines of her bosom. She froze in place, as though she had been turned into a pillar of ice. Extending out of the rubble was a long, scorched thigh bone.

Dreadful images flooded unbidden into her mind... She could hear the uruks screaming their war songs of death and carnage as they broke down the door and poured inside... Their scimitars swinging, they cut down any who opposed them... The woman screamed as they threw her down to the floor and took their turns with her as her terrified children were forced to watch... Black smoke and flames rose up, hiding the mutilated body. Elffled felt the fear, the pain as though it were her own. Gasping, she forced her eyes from the charred, fragmented bone and wailed hysterically.

Alarmed by her sister's scream, Elfhild was instantly by her side. "What is wrong? Oh, I see," she gasped as her eyes dropped down to the object of Elffled's gaze.

"Let us get out of here!" Elffled tugged her sister's sleeve frantically, her eyes welling up with tears.

Elfhild knelt down to take a closer look at the bone. "How horrible," she murmured, the expression on her face one of sorrow.

"Please, let us leave this awful place!" Elffled cried.

Elfhild slowly rose to her feet. "No – not until we have buried this victim of the enemy. There was no one to bury our mother after the orcs murdered her. I want to give this poor Gondorian what our mother never had."

"I can feel the presence of the woman who was killed here," Elffled whimpered. "Do you not hear her blood calling out for vengeance?"

"Yes, I can sense her anger and pain; it stains the ground like her blood," Elfhild replied, her voice sounding hollow to her ears. "But we cannot avenge her. All we can do is bury what remains of her body."

Elffled's gaze returned to the bone, as though it were some dread talisman which had cast a dark spell over her. "Oh, Elfhild, I do not want to think of our mother like this, naught but charred bones buried in the ashes of our home." Her eyes welling up with tears, she looked away, unable to speak.

"Then think of her as she was, back when she was alive." Elfhild's voice was soft and tender. "Think of her smile, her face, the sound of her laughter. Remember how she played games with us when we were children and told us stories as she tucked us into bed at night. Remember how proud she was of her cooking and weaving, and how overjoyed she was whenever she won the pie contest at the midsummer fair." Her throat constricting with emotion, Elfhild attempted a wan smile and squeezed her sister's hand reassuringly. "This is how our mother would have wanted us to remember her, alive and happy. Now come and let us give this poor soul a decent burial."

**•·•·•**

The two girls gathered stones from the ruined foundation and heaped them over the bone, constructing a makeshift cairn to protect what remained of the body from further desecration. After the twins had said a few words to honor the dead, they softly sang an old dirge and then stood in respectful silence for a few moments. Here this victim of war would lie, buried in a shallow grave of rubble with the remains of those possessions which she had held dear in life. There was no time for a proper funeral, and no one to attend it save wild animals and birds, but the girls did their best. They could not even leave an offering of food for the dead because they could not spare a crumb of their meager larder. With sorrow in their hearts, both for their own woes and for the dire fates which had befallen the residents of the village, Elfhild and Elffled quietly departed from the house and made their way towards a dense section of woods which bordered the village.

There they sat amid the tall trees, looking wistfully towards the west. Their senses as scorched as the village, they needed time to recover from the nightmarish sights which they had seen. The enemy patrol they had seen on the Great West Road had left both girls feeling skittish, and they were afraid to venture too close to the thoroughfare. With the path to the west blocked, there was not much the girls could do but wander aimlessly along the Anduin. They would have to bide their time and wait until the enemy patrol was long gone before continuing on their way. How long should they delay? Neither girl knew, and both were afraid to make an ill-timed move. As the day dragged on, the horror of the village dulled to mere discomfiture, and discomfiture faded to a lingering sense of melancholy, much like the way that the flesh of a corpse rots away to leave bare bones. How many more tragedies would they witness as they traveled through this war ravaged land?

With nothing much to do but wander and wait, the twins fell into an uneasy silence as they brooded upon their troubled thoughts. Hugging her knees to her chest, Elfhild sat beneath an oak tree and worried about what would become of her sister and her. She had never used to feel such doubt and uncertainty before the war. Up until that spring, she had thought she knew what her future would hold. In a year or so when she was old enough, she would marry Osric, the blacksmith's son. She had liked him since she was ten, and every time her family went to the village, she would always find some excuse to stop by the blacksmith's shop so she could see him. She had often daydreamed about their wedding, which she wanted to take place on Midsummer Day, right after her birthday. A bittersweet melancholy came over her as she remembered those sweet, innocent fantasies that had so often filled her head...

A crown made from straw and wheat and woven round with honeysuckle, daisies and other wildflowers would adorn her head, and the handsome groom would be quite the dashing sight attired in his best clothing. Prior to the ceremony, Osric would entrust the sword of his forefathers to her; later, she would return the weapon to him and they would exchange rings over the hilt of the sword. Clasping their hands upon the pommel, they would look into each other's eyes and recite their vows. The day would be one filled with festivity and merriment as both families celebrated the union. Elfhild always loved ceremonies, whether happy ones like weddings and festivals, or sad ones like funerals.

But when the war had come, her whole world had been destroyed, and all her dreams had gone up in smoke. She did not even know if Osric was alive or if he had joined her father and brother in death. A lump rose up in her throat as she thought about the hair ribbon she had given him ere he rode out with the muster that sunny day back in March. She prayed that the small token had brought him luck, and he escaped the barbs and blades of his enemies.

What would happen to Elfhild and her sister when – if – they made it back to the Mark? Did any of their family yet live? What of childhood friends and neighbors? The Mark to which they would return would be naught like the Mark which they once knew. Did their country yet stand, or was it now a vassal of Mordor? Perhaps when they reached the border, they would be greeted by a welcoming party of orcs. She remembered the high lord who rode triumphantly through the Firien Wood, clad all in black and riding a steed of ebony. Mayhap he dwelt in Edoras now, holding court inside the Golden Hall. Such thoughts filled her heart with sorrow and dread. In a few days, she would know for sure what remained of her beloved homeland. Until then, she would have to spend her time both fearing and anticipating that moment of truth.

She and Elffled were venturing into the heart of the fire. She prayed they would not get burnt.


	12. Two Healers One Harlot

Written by Angmar and Elfhild

After the slaver had left the tent, Aziru grinned wickedly at Tushratta. "More company tonight, Doctor, and such delightful company it will be! I must prepare something special for supper.

"Aziru, why do you always insist upon cooking when I own three slave boys, one of whom is an experienced cook. You do more than your share of the work as it is. Why not rest this evening and let them take care of preparing the meal?" Tushratta glanced up from his journal spread before him on the low table. Scowling slightly, he took the reed pen, dipped it in ink, and added a few notes to the paper.

"Cooking gives me immense satisfaction, almost as much as I derive from studying works on medicine and collecting medicinal plants in the field. Besides, I like to eat," the small Khandian chuckled, "and if I prepare the food, I know the meal will not deviate from my high expectations."

"Then prepare whatever you want, Aziru." The master physician was distracted, his mind far away from mundane matters such as what would be served for supper. His concentration was totally directed towards the perplexing case of Goldwyn of Rohan. Though he could find no physical cause for her strange lethargy, he still hesitated to give it a supernatural explanation. There were other possibilities. Perhaps she had fallen victim to a bizarre form of the sleeping sickness which often raged through the far South, sickening many.

Possibly she was in the second phase of the disease... that would explain the disturbed sleep cycle that she was experiencing, the doctor reasoned to himself. Maybe the exertion that she experienced in escaping from the orcs had so weakened her that she had fallen into a state of total physical exhaustion, making her body more susceptible to disease. That could explain the hysterical shrieking that they had heard. There were some definite correlations between her case and sleeping sickness. Tushratta thought of the victims of the disease that he had seen in the past. Perhaps she had fallen prey to the malady...

But still, there was no characteristic swelling of her neck, armpits, chest, stomach and groin. Sleeping sickness was an impossibility! How could a woman who was native to the North ever fall victim to a disease of Far Harad? Tushratta felt relieved that there was little chance that this could be the disease which plagued her, for there was no cure known for sleeping sickness, the disease always being fatal.

While Goldwyn's strange malady shared symptoms with other diseases, Tushratta had ruled them out one by one. What was left for a diagnosis? He was not one of the simple who gave every natural event - from the cry of a bird at night to the appearance of a comet - a supernatural explanation. While he believed that magic still existed in the world, his logical mind had as yet to see the proof of it. Everything could be explained either by the ruling of Destiny or by natural occurrence.

While Tushratta pondered the dilemma of diagnosing the bizarre case, his assistant bustled around the tent as he made plans for the supper. Inspecting their food stores, he noted the quantities of dried beans, rice and lentils; the amounts of flour, dried meat, fruit and cheese. He ran a finger over the sealed earthenware jars of jams and jellies, and then came to the olives, pickled cucumbers, onions, and the other vegetables which were preserved in jars of brine. Occasionally taking out a pinch of dried leaves from small pots, he crushed them between his fingers, inhaling the exotic essences before placing the ingredients in a basin and stirring them together.

"Something a little more festive for supper... Let me see..." Resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger, Aziru mentally inventoried his collection of cooking supplies, utensils and spices. "The camp cook will prepare his usual unimaginative griddle bread for supper and sprinkle the tops of the round loaves with sesame and aniseed, as he always does. He varies but seldom in what he prepares. The man is to be pitied, for he does not have the soul of a true cook!"

"That sounds fine, Aziru," replied the doctor. Not really paying attention to what his assistant was saying, Tushratta stared into space, his mind on other matters.

Aziru shot a sharp glance at the physician. "Each food must compliment every other one upon my table. But there are so many limitations to cooking on the trail! Or perhaps I should say challenges." He sprinkled another spice into the basin. "Such a shame that you and I have been so long away from Bablon, Tushratta, for the cooks there are among the finest in the world. Who else save the chefs of Bablon would devise recipes for over fifty kinds of bread!" Aziru added a little water to the concoction and swirled it around. "Does the Master Physician have a preference for tonight's meal? Something special that I might prepare for him?" A questioning look upon his face, he turned to the physician.

"No, Aziru," he replied absentmindedly. "I have nothing particular that I wish for supper. Beans, rice and lintels prepared in a soup... lamb would be a marvelous addition, but since we do not have it-" Tushratta interrupted himself in mid-sentence, "-you know I am an ordinary man and believe in eating simple meals."

"Of course." Talking out loud to himself, Aziru was not giving his full attention to Tushratta's words. He returned to the inspection of his food supplies. "Ahhh, for some yogurt and turnips! What I would give for even a little fresh, soft cheese!" Aziru exclaimed, closing his eyes and letting his reverie transport him far away. "Master, do you remember the wonderful aroma of Bablon in winter! The glorious city was perfumed by the odor of turnips simmering in date syrup and water. I can still remember the tantalizing fragrance that filled the nostrils on those cool winter days. Surely you remember, Doctor... Doctor?" Aziru turned around, ready to repeat his question, when he realized that the physician was no longer there. He noted that the arras between the two chambers was swaying slightly.

Aziru shook his head. "My friend has gone to the inner chamber to see if the woman has stirred. He does not think I notice the way his eyes gleam with desire when he looks at her." Aziru opened the jar of dried lentils and tossed a few handfuls into the liquid. "Tushratta should have his own woman to take care of his needs," he reflected to himself. "For that matter, so should I."

Bending down, he picked up an earthenware container of chickpeas. "Perhaps some lemon juice and garlic would give more taste... then for desert, dried figs cooked with cinnamon, walnuts and sesame seeds. The physician does not eat enough..." He shook his head. "Perhaps if I add more sugar..."

Later that evening, Aziru was busily absorbed with his cooking when one of the servant boys admitted a young woman, not much more than a girl. A leather case containing a tanbur slung from a strap over her shoulder and a baby held in her arms, the woman smiled shyly under lowered eyelids as she began to kneel.

"Sang-mí, my darling! You do not need do obeisance to me!" Aziru called out. "I will not hear of your bowing!"

"My lord Aziru..."

"Hush, girl!" The physician's assistant walked over to the girl. After helping her to her feet, he held a finger to her lips to silence her protests. "No lord am I, but only an herbalist and a doctor's helper... and a fair cook, if you would count that. Let me hold your child while you put your mantle and lute on that stool over there."

"Master, a woman of my station never assumes anything," she murmured softly as she placed the babe into Aziru's outstretched arms. Unfastening the brooch which held her mantle secured under her chin, she pulled the garment away from her head and shoulders. The removal of her covering revealed a young woman with large brown kohl-lined eyes set in a moon-shaped face, unblemished light olive skin, and a small, round nose. Her dark, shiny tresses fell in tightly coiled ringlets over her shoulders. Her milk-swollen breasts were barely covered by the scandalously low necked long jacket of dark green which she wore over a flowing blue dress. Her only jewelry was a piece of coral set upon an inexpensive silver-plated chain. Out of all the pleasure slaves which Esarhaddon retained for the use of his men, her eyes were the only ones which yet remained soft and gentle. She had not yet acquired the hard appearance that came with years of use and disillusion.

Looking around the tent, Sang-mí asked, "Where can I make a bed for the child? Am I sleeping with you or the physician tonight... or the both of you?"

"Neither," replied Tushratta's deep voice as he parted the curtain and stepped forward into the room.

"Master," Sang-mí murmured softly as she sank to the carpet and kissed the sleeve of his caftan. Bending down, the physician took her by the hands and pulled her to her feet. Being careful not to raise her eyes to him, she studied the carpet until he cupped her chin and brought her face to gaze into his.

"Sang-mí, how many times must I tell you that you do not have to bow to either of us when you are in my tent? In public, yes, abide by custom, but not here."

"Too many times perhaps, Master, but most men demand that slaves show them the proper deference." Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked up to him. "If I am not to warm the bed of either of you tonight, why have I been commanded by my master Esarhaddon to come here? He sent a slave boy to tell me that you needed my services, and what was I to think except..."

"Not this time, angel of Paradise." Tushratta stroked the silky skin under her chin with the backs of his fingers. Aziru sent the physician a disappointed look as he dandled the child in his arms. "There is another woman inside lying on my couch..."

Sang-mí raised an eyebrow. "You wish for me to kiss and caress her while the two of you watch and indulge yourselves? While sometimes I have been called upon by masters to ready a girl for their pleasure in that way, I must say that I have always been reluctant to do such things, for they go against my natural inclinations."

"Sang-mí, you misunderstand," Tushratta explained. "This is the woman who was found in the tomb. She has never awakened from her unusual slumber, and needs to be watched continuously."

"Oh, Master, I understand now!" She smiled approvingly. "Please take me to her."

After the supper was finished and the dishes were cleared away by the servant boys, the two physicians and the harlot reclined on the cushions on the floor as they drank their tea. Though the physician had politely complimented Aziru on his cooking, Sang-mí had been effusive in her compliments, offering to reward him generously for his efforts later that night.

"Master Aziru, let me show you how much I appreciate your culinary efforts with some sport on your sleeping mat... or on the rug, or the table, or against the tent pole... or anywhere else that you please, for that matter," she offered seductively, her voice deep and throaty. "Perhaps you would enjoy pretending that I am a virgin and that you are examining my virtue... Then when it is found that I am unable to live up to the standards of modesty, you could spank me for my naughtiness."

"I would like that very much, Sang-mí," Aziru breathed heavily as he leaned towards her. Turning to the head physician for approval, he discovered that Tushratta had once again immersed himself in his books and was not giving his attention to the conversation.

Glancing up from a scroll, Tushratta inquired blandly, "What did you say, Sang-mí?"

"Nothing, Master..." she giggled as she assumed an innocent expression and fluttered her long eyelashes modestly at him. "But it is time for my son Nib to be fed." Deftly averting Aziru's groping hands, she scampered to her feet. Bowing as she rose, she retired to the inner chamber, where her child had been sleeping during the meal.

Aziru groaned in displeasure, and Tushratta looked up at him curiously. "Something not agreeing with your stomach?"

"Aye, you could say it was a distress in the lower regions, but it will pass," Aziru replied drolly.

"The girl is gone?" Tushratta inquired questioningly. "Ah, well, it is time for bed anyway," he remarked, gathering up his journal and other papers. Both he and Aziru followed Sang-mí.

Taking up the child, who had been lying on a blanket on the floor and complaining loudly about his hunger, Sang-mí pushed aside her low-cut bodice and shoved a nipple in the child's mouth. Aziru set up his hookah by the low table and watched in fascination as Sang-mí suckled her baby. The chief physician went back to his reading but found that he had trouble concentrating, for his eyes continually wandered to the nearby couch where the sleeping Goldwyn lay. Tushratta's worry for her had absorbed his thoughts until her plight had become an obsession for him. His concern had increased with the passage of each hour. Once again he read and reread the section called "On the Nature of Those Who Are Afflicted With Evil Spirits" in his well-worn volume.

His forehead wrinkled with concern, Aziru studied the vapor from the pipe. "Are you finding anything in your scrolls that might lead you to a diagnosis and cure? No? I see you shake your head. I thought as much... If you cannot discover anything, perhaps you should put up the parchment and join me in a smoke? You should relax more."

Looking across the table at his assistant, Tushratta's face was clouded in discouragement. "No, no pipe tonight. Perhaps I made a mistake in judgment when I devoted myself totally to medicine and did not study under a shaman in addition. At least then I would have more of an understanding of the occult than I have now." He shook his head. "Actually, we should consult a specialist in these things."

"Too late to do anything about it now, Tushratta," Aziru murmured sleepily as he exhaled a lofty smoke ring. "Khand is too far away to send for help."

The child finished feeding, and Sang-mí brushed her lips across his forehead. "The boy is asleep now. Of course, he will soon be hungry again." She made a lyrical sound deep in her throat as she placed the baby upon the bed that Aziru had created for him from a blanket-covered reed mat. When she returned to the physician and his assistant, Sang-mí saw that Aziru's eyes had taken on a glazed appearance.

"Time for me to sleep and dream the dreams of the blessed," he yawned as he languidly rose to his feet and set the stem of the waterpipe upon the tray on the table. "Sleep well, Tushratta, and remember, Sang-mí, if my friend Tushratta allows it, you can always come over and keep me company in my bed."

"Aziru, you know she is not here for that purpose," the physician frowned in displeasure.

"I know, I know, but it does no harm to think." Sighing, the small man walked over to his sleeping mat and stripped down to his loincloth. Yawning prodigiously, he scratched his rotund, hairy stomach and lay down, pulling a blanket over his body as he turned onto his side. Sang-mí watched him with interest as she stood by her son's sleeping pallet. After blowing Aziru a kiss, she turned and walked over to gaze down at the unconscious Goldwyn.

"Sang-mí, rub my back." Closing the book, Tushratta groaned slightly as he stretched his arms.

"Yes, Master," she purred as she swayed over. Kneeling down behind him, she began massaging the taut muscles in his neck and shoulders. "What is wrong with the Northern woman? Her face is ashen, she is cold to the touch, and she barely moves!" Alarmed at her first sight of Goldwyn, Sang-mí gave her head a quick jerk to the side, gesturing towards the sleeping woman.

"That I wish I knew." Tushratta sighed as he leaned back into her probing fingers. "Perhaps this book has the answer, but as yet, I cannot find it... or perhaps it is that I have already found it but do not wish to accept it."

"Master, how long has it been since you have slept?" Sang-mí asked with concern. "You look exhausted!"

"Some sleep during the noon siesta, but that is all since the night before last," Tushratta replied wearily.

"Then please sleep now! Do not fear. I will keep a vigilant watch over the woman and awaken you if she stirs."

"I think I will take your suggestion, Sang-mí. I am so weary that I fear I will fall asleep over my books if I stay here any longer. Extinguish the lanterns and snuff out all the candles, save for one to give you light enough to see by." Stumbling to his feet, Tushratta made his way to his sleeping mat, where he slid off his slippers and began pulling his caftan over his head.

"Master," Sang-mí called softly, "I am ashamed. You should have told me to assist you in undressing... If you should have need for me to bring you comfort and consolation during the night, you have but to command."

No answer greeted her except a great snore, for Tushratta had sprawled onto his mat and was already asleep on the pillows.


	13. An Argument Between Sisters

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The sun was sinking behind the dark mountains to the west, and Elffled's stomach was sinking from want of food. By the way her belly was growling, she felt as though she had swallowed some sort of creature which was desperately trying to gnaw its way through the walls of her stomach. Her supper had consisted of a few torn up pieces of bread and some fishy tasting water from the Anduin – a far cry from a satisfying meal. Though she did not like it, she understood why they had to be very careful with their food. In order to make their meager supply last longer than a day, they had to be very cautious about what they ate... which meant going hungry most of the time.

"How silly is this whole plan," Elffled grumbled as she finished off the few crumbs which Elfhild had allocated for the evening meal. "How can we get back to the Mark with such little food? We cannot even raid some Gondorian's garden because the orcs destroyed everything back in the spring!"

"Elffled, you know as well as I do that we have to watch what we eat because we do not know when we will find food," Elfhild dutifully reminded her. "It is my prayer that we will find a village that was spared by the orcs and obtain adequate supplies for the journey there."

"But what if they all look like the one we saw earlier today? Naught but ruins and ashes, the dwelling places of ghosts." Elffled dreaded what they would see as they traveled west. The journey to Minas Tirith was made beneath the oppressive clouds of Mordor, and the darkness which filled the sky had restricted the range of vision. Now, though, they would see the extent of the devastation of Gondor in the light of day.

"Surely, in all the land of Anorien, there are at least a few survivors of the war. Not everyone has been murdered or taken captive. We just have to find those who remain and seek their aid." Though Elfhild had begun to despair after seeing the ruined village, talking like this made her feel more hopeful about the journey.

"Well, if we do not find food or help within the next day, we will starve to death." Elffled knew her words were filled with gloom and doom, but she did not feel like covering up the truth with layers of honey.

"I am certain we will find someone who will help us." Elfhild smiled reassuringly. "I just have a feeling."

"You know, if we had not run away, we could be eating good food right now and not be worrying about what we will eat tomorrow," Elffled grumbled. Shaken by the sight of the ruined village, unhappy at the prospects of wandering through a desolate wasteland on a hopeless quest, and tormented by hunger, her temper began to flare.

"We will get to the Mark, and we will not starve," Elfhild proclaimed, her voice filled with a resolution she did not feel.

Elffled felt her fists clench of their own accord. "You know, it took us over twenty days to walk from the ruins of our village to the ruins of Mundburg. And we have what? Scraps we managed to hide over the course of a single day without the guards noticing? Scraps, mind you, Elfhild - not even enough food to make a whole meal. Dear Lady Goldwyn is certainly a brilliant planner... She has about as much foresight as a five-year-old who decides to run away from home carrying naught but a chunk of bread wrapped in a handkerchief." Her eyes blazing, Elffled laughed sarcastically.

"Goldwyn gave us hope when we had none before," Elfhild insisted, coming to the defense of the woman who masterminded the escape attempt. "We were all too downtrodden even to consider escape, but she showed us that, with planning and coordination, we could throw off the shackles of our oppressors and flee." Elffled's words were true, Elfhild realized with a sinking feeling. The escape attempt was hastily planned and little thought had been given to provisions and what the captives would do if they managed to evade their captors. But Elfhild did not want to admit the truth to herself, much less her twin.

"Hope is the thing that composes the dreams of fools," Elffled retorted, wondering for a brief moment how she became so jaded. "And Goldwyn is the biggest fool of all to have come up with this insane scheme." A childhood memory suddenly came to Elffled's mind, and she laughed bitterly at the appropriateness of it. "You know, this whole wretched situation reminds me of an old tale Grandmother used to tell us."

"Tell me the story; it will be better than hearing your never-ending complaining." Elfhild crossed her arms over her chest and gave her twin a look of annoyance.

Ignoring Elfhild's barbed words, Elffled began to speak. "There was once a traveling minstrel who wandered from village to village, playing songs for coin. One day, he came to a town which was suffering from a horrible infestation of rats. The minstrel, who was also a magician as well, offered to rid the town of the vermin. The thane readily agreed, and the minstrel began to play an enchanted melody upon his flute that caused all the rats to follow him out of the town. So besmitten with the song were they that all of the rodents hopped in the River Entwash and drowned. The minstrel returned to the thane for payment, but the thane, who was a dishonest ruler, instead exiled the man from the town. Enraged, the minstrel began to play a song on his magic flute, and all of the children of the town fell into a trance, leaving behind their families and homes to follow the minstrel wherever he went." Elffled paused for dramatic effect and to give her words a chance to penetrate her sister's thick head. "Goldwyn is like that minstrel; she poisoned the minds of women and children with her words of false hope and led the innocent away to die in the wilderness."

"How dare you say such cruel, horrible things about Goldwyn!" Elfhild cried, aghast.

"Every word of it is true!" Elffled's voice was loud and shrill. "You have to stop dreaming and face reality, Elfhild. We have to go back and turn ourselves in! It is either that or starve to death!"

"No! No! Not after we have come so far!" The thoughts of humiliating herself before the Southrons horrified Elfhild. "We must press onward! We cannot give up now!"

"Elfhild, you should really hear yourself talking! You sound as mad as that shrew Goldwyn! Anyone who would believe such rubbish as she spouted must be even madder than she is! I cannot believe I have a lunatic like you for a sister!" As soon as she saw the look of hurt on Elfhild's face, Elffled realized that she had made a mistake.

Stricken to the core by her sister's hurtful words, Elfhild stared blankly at the other girl for a long moment before she burst into tears. Sobbing, she leapt to her feet, turned on her heels and fled into the gathering dusk.

"Run away!" Elffled shouted after her. "I hope the slavers catch you! You are too stupid to live out here on your own!"

Sighing heavily, Elffled slumped back upon the ground, lying there as though utterly exhausted. Let Elfhild pout like a bratty little child! She was a misguided fool, like all the rest of them.

Feeling quite sorry for herself, Elffled lay on the ground and stared for a long while at the deep blue of the evening sky. Soon guilt caught up with her, like an opponent in a brutal race. Perhaps she was wrong in condemning her sister. Elfhild did, after all, think she was doing the right thing by adventuring this quest. Maybe it was the right thing. Who was the judge of things like that? The Gods, perhaps, but they did not share their secrets. Would their ancestors have deemed her right or wrong? Who knew the thoughts of dead men from a defeated land?

It was getting darker by the minute, and still Elfhild had not returned. The sun had gone down, leaving behind only her memory in the form of a faint rosy glow which tinted the dark blue sky. Her anger cooling like the evening air, Elffled began to feel sad and lonely. She should not have been so harsh on the other girl and allowed her pent-up frustrations to get the best of her. Of course, Elfhild would never leave her, though that unsettling thought had crossed Elffled's mind. Elfhild was just in a pout and would return when she had come to her senses. Back at home, she would run off to the family burial ground to cry on her grandmother's barrow whenever she was upset. Other times, she would hide in the woods, giving everyone quite a fright when they came looking for her. Here in the wilderness, though, it was not safe to wander alone. Steeling herself, Elffled rose to her feet and walked into the forest in search of her sister.

**•·•·•**

Elfhild sat upon a fallen log, her chin resting in her hands. Her chest ached from the force of her coughing sobs and her eyes felt sandy from the flood of tears which had run down her cheeks. She stared into the mist which had slowly begun to rise along the line of skeletal trees by the waters of the Anduin. The gloominess of her surroundings complimented her mood quite well, and she almost welcomed the darkness of the gloaming as her spirit sank ever deeper into pensive melancholy.

She was being torn in twain, as though two strong men had seized her by each wrist and proceeded to pull her in opposite directions. Elffled would have her turn back and beg mercy from their enemies, and Goldwyn would have her press relentlessly forward. Which one was right? What was the right decision? Or was there one?

She sighed heavily, her heart aching. She felt so lost without her father and mother there to guide her. Her birthday was in two days and she would be a year older, but she still felt much like a child. She was much too young to make such complicated decisions. What did she know of surviving in the wilderness and planning great journeys? She had never gone hunting and seldom went fishing, nor did she know aught of fighting. The skills at which she excelled - cooking, cleaning, weaving, spinning, sewing, gardening, gathering herbs, tending to animals, and taking care of a house - were virtually worthless out here in this wasteland, for nothing was growing and most of the animals had wandered off in search of greener pastures. At this stage in the journey, it was too dangerous even to risk starting a fire for warmth or cooking, for the smoke would be seen by the enemy.

When Goldwyn had first talked about escaping, Elfhild had imagined that she and her sister would be traveling with a large group of people. There would have been older women to offer leadership and advice, and doughty lads to help protect them. Actually, Elfhild's troop would have been the ideal arrangement - Goldwyn was an indomitable leader and Waerburh made a worthy second-in-command; Fródwine and Frumgár were strong and courageous boys with a wealth of knowledge in woodcraft and hunting; and Leofgifu was a giver of wise counsel. Elfhild and Elffled could help with cooking and gathering food; even fight if need called. The whole group could help protect little Fritha and Hunig and poor Breguswith.

Elfhild had never expected to journey alone. Of course, they might not have to; maybe they would meet some of the other captives and then they could flee back home together. She could hope... she did that a lot. Maybe that was a bad quality, for oft did her confidence that good fortune would always prevail make her blind to reality. Perhaps that was why she was in this mess in the first place; she had allowed herself to become too wrapped up in Goldwyn's impassioned speeches.

Ah, but she had felt such a powerful feeling of camaraderie then, as though she and the other women were united as one powerful, living, breathing entity. She looked up to the cobalt heavens above her, sighing wistfully as she recalled how brave and mighty she had felt. They were as riders the night before a battle, steeling themselves for the final charge! Honor and glory would be theirs, and their tales would be told in song for many long years to come.

A wavering little smile came to Elfhild's lips when she thought back to the night when she had listened with rapt attention to Goldwyn's bold conspiracy, as though the older woman were some golden goddess of war and she were an humble devotee. How honored and important she had felt when she had spread the word to the other captives! Goldwyn was such a strong and heroic woman, somewhat like Elfhild's own mother, but far more audacious and daring.

Her mother... Elfhild lightly pressed a hand to her grieving heart and struggled to keep the tears at bay. What would her mother have done, had she not been so ruthlessly murdered? Would she have accompanied her daughters on their flight, or would she have forbidden them from going? It was difficult to say. True, Athelthryth had fought like a warrior to defend her home, but would she have counseled her daughters to risk everything to escape?

Athelthryth and Leofgifu had been the best of friends, and the two women were much alike in their thinking. Would Athelthryth have also considered Goldwyn's plan to escape as foolish madness? A cruel, mocking thought flailed Elfhild's mind with agonizing guilt - would she have abandoned her mother as easily as she had done her aunt? Elfhild's fingers clenched the fabric of her dress as her body slumped forward slightly. No, no! That was unthinkable! Her head swam and she felt sick to her stomach.

"Oh no," she moaned piteously, "what have I done? I have forsaken my own aunt and cousin, and for what? I do not really know... I do not really know." Oh, never in her life had she felt so uncertain, so confused, so frightened!

Elfhild felt the wall of reckless bravado she had raised about herself begin to crumble, and she was a timid, fearful little girl once more. She must run back and beg her aunt's forgiveness! What was she doing here? Her breath was now coming in heavy pants, as though she had run a great race. The trees seemed to grow taller, the shadows deepening, becoming ominous and foreboding. Her fingers trembled and she clenched her fists in a futile effort to still them. Oh, what had she done? What had she done? She ran her fingers through her dirty hair, clutching at the tangled strands.

"I must not panic," she murmured, striving with herself. "I cannot panic! It will serve no use and only make the situation worse!" Closing her eyes tightly, Elfhild took a deep breath, held it, and then released it slowly. She was in control. Yes, she was in control. She and her sister would get back to the Mark. They would find their relatives in one of the refugee camps. Just when all seemed lost, somehow the enemy would be defeated and driven from their land. She would marry Osric, raise a family and live to be a grandmother. Her tale would have a happy ending. Good always triumphed over evil! Yes... yes. That was it. Breathe slowly, deeply, pause between taking breaths. Yes, that was it.

Suddenly Elfhild heard a noise, the muffled sound of a foot stepping down upon a stick. She froze, then relaxed, realizing Elffled had come looking for her. Then the urge to flee came again. Her poor feelings had been raked over the coals by her dear sister, and she was in no mood to talk to the little witch. Springing to her feet, she began briskly walking away.

"Elfhild!" Elffled called, hurrying to catch up with her.


End file.
